Someone's Watching
by Ingenious Insomniac
Summary: The odds stacked against her, ten metres tall. That man evaded the police for years. He'd killed two young women before they were even reported missing. Greg tried to find him once and failed. But this time – this time – it was different, personal. He swore to himself no one would ever lay a hand on Molly Hooper. (Mollstrade, post-Reichenbach)
1. Prologue

**Someone's Watching **

_An unsolved case from Greg's past reappears. The chance to catch an elusive murderer returns, but this time, it's bloody personal. Molly/Lestrade _

**Rated M for sexual content, strong language, and scary/mature situations.**

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

The boy cocked his head in confusion once the body stopped moving. He furrowed his brows, allowing the events to sink through his skull. Stuffing himself back into his trousers, he smoothed his hair back in consideration.

Well, that was the end of it then. She was gone.

She had been an awfully good shag though. At least before the seizure. Yet, something about that, the danger, the taboo of it, made him salivate and grow harder with the thought.

He eyed the lifeless body, unable to help but wonder. If the taboo of fucking a seizing woman became such a hard on, what if…

No. He stopped himself immediately. That potentially insulted Celeste's memory. And he didn't want to insult her – he loved her.

Their happiness thrived for so long. Why did she ruin it? He frowned, pondering the general sluttish nature of females, the whole lot of them. You let one in, he realised, and they soon fucked it all up. As it turned out, even Celeste failed the challenge of keeping her legs closed.

He only wanted a nice girl. Once upon a time, he had one. Susan. She'd been perfect. But then she died. He hadn't been able to find a perfect one since. Celeste had been so close.

A man as busy as him, with such rigorous studies, he hardly had time for a relationship. Celeste said she didn't care. She seemed so perfect, at least, at first. Quiet, lovely, shy. She never went out partying, always seemed keen for a night in. But then her weakness revealed itself– all girls' weaknesses – another boy. Some stupid chav from the East End. And she developed a second relationship.

He tried to be patient. He knew he was the perfect man for her—the _only _man for her. But, she ignored him. She fucking ignored him and kept on with that stupid chav. Well, he refused to take it sitting down. They were in love, damn it. They were always going to be together.

Well, not anymore. She was dead, after all.

He hadn't _meant _to kill her, of course. He'd just wanted to try something new – turn up the heat, make her realise how much she loved him back. Still, the drugs proved too strong for her delicate system. Granted, _maybe _he made a mistake in forcing her to drink vodka before.

But it wasn't supposed to kill her. That was the unpleasant side-effect, not the intention.

At least, he reminded himself softly, she never broke up with him. That would've been awful.

Now, they were only over because she was. No harm done.

He set to work in cleaning the room. Scrubbing his prints off, Hoovering away any traces of his hair or skin cells. Thoroughness, he thought, turning to his salvation: a bottle of bleach.

Thus, he cleaned everything in the abandoned house. Other than teenagers breaking in for their own drug fixes, people rarely entered the old building. Well, at least when the drugged kids broke in, no evidence possibly led back to him.

As he walked away, under the cover of the blackest night he'd ever known, he felt a twinge of regret over what happened with Celeste.

Why did she cheat on him? It left a horrible feeling pounding in his gut – after all, he was only _human. _He'd mustered up so much courage to talk to her in the first place. She seemed so _nice_ at first. Well, that wound up completely wrong.

Really, were there no truly nice girls in the world? A nice girl, shy, subdued, and pretty in a quaint way, for his appreciation, without a stampede of other men trying to look at her. One whose libido didn't rival Catherine the Great. That's where the trick came in. He'd watch out though. He'd find someone, some sweet girl, for whom he'd be the only one. And he could love her.

And she'd love him, and _only him_, back.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade just turned thirty when he received a promotion from Sergeant to Detective Inspector. After working for the Yard for only five years, he was one of the youngest men to receive the position at the time, he reminded himself with a small smirk as he packed himself up and moved into a bigger office with people twice his age working under him.

He, rather naively, assumed this meant the Superintendent saw something in him – some sort of aptitude, that he was suited for the job. His first few cases supported the assumption by coming along rather quickly. Easily, even. The baddies were caught in a matter of days, and the family of the murdered wound up consoled with closure. Then, on 14, May 1998, Greg found himself facing the case of Celeste Paxton.

The caretaker, a bumbling sphere with sausages for limbs, found her, stuck in the centre of a brightly lit den, completely naked. The scene was absolutely clean. No fingerprints, no fallen hairs. The room which, according to the caretaker, was scarcely used, seemed dusted to perfection, and nothing in the crime scene helped any of the forensics pathologists with any leads at all. They couldn't even find blood in the room, only traces of bleach.

Celeste died from a slit throat, deep in two places. Blood caked on her face, stained red. Although none wound up on the floor, vomit attracted flies and bugs into her light hair. They found semen between her legs, and copious amounts of GHB in her blood. It came easily enough to figure how it went. Kidnapped, raped with the help of the drug, and then murdered.

Upon further investigation, Greg learned Celeste enrolled earlier in the year as an undergraduate student at Kings College. Her roommate told him she was extremely quiet, mostly keeping to herself and to Billy Morrison, her new boyfriend. When he turned his investigation to Billy, the boy had been in France the month before, and having just returned, could not stop bawling the whole time.

"Look, Billy," Greg said, gnawing on the side of his mouth, "You need to tell us what you know."

"Y'think it was me, don' ya?" Billy whimpered, nearly hyperventilating. "It ain'. I been abroad for school…"

"We _know. _You're not a suspect_." _ Greg shook his head. The latter part of that statement wasn't exactly true, but he needed the boy to open up and talk. "But you're the only person anyone can link us to on Celeste, the only friend she had apparently. So you need to tell us everything you know."

Billy shook back and forth. "I dunno. Celes'e is really private, y'know? We talk an' shag an' fancy each other, but I really din't know 'er that well. I guess I won't ever now. But I dunno!"

"Rack your brain, then." Greg muttered, rubbing the back of his neck absentmindedly.

Shaking his head, and rubbing the bridge of his nose, Billy stammered. "I…I dunno. She did tell me 'bout some dodgy emails."

"Emails?" Greg asked, head shooting up.

"Yeah. She din't seem worried much, though. Told me she though' it was a prank or somethin', an' she ignored 'em."

This was all Greg needed. With some basic help from the server, they opened Celeste's email account, and found themselves greatly disturbed by its contents.

Several untraceable emails, sent from libraries and public computers from all over the United Kingdom, and even in Ireland, with no name attached. At first, these emails were short and curt, nothing dodgy about them at all.

_You missed Biology today. _

_How goes the new vegetarian diet? _

_Try to get more sleep, Celeste, I'm worried about you. _

It seemed as though a friend or concerned classmate sent her those emails to, perhaps, jumpstart her academic career. Then, the emails grew longer, and took a turn for the obsessive.

_I miss you – when can we talk? I have so much to tell you. You won't believe what happened today. I won't write the details now – too funny – but you ought to prepare yourself for a great laugh. _

_Why are you doing this with Billy? I know you're cheating, but why? How could you do this? To me? We're soul-mates, Celeste. If you have to mess around on me – ok, ok. Some people are sluts like that. But you'll come back to me. You have to. _

_You're so beautiful, Celeste, don't do this to me. I've looked at your face for an hour straight and I can't contain it anymore. You're mine. _

_Why can't you love me? We've been together so long – why now? Stay with me. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. STAY. _

Then, they became even worse.

_I breathe for you – all my life depends on you. Why can't you fucking see it? We're meant to be together. You're my whole world, my sun, my stars, my sky. Any life without you is pointless. Pointless. Fucking pointless. I can't survive without you. You're in my heart. You are my heart. You have completely turned my world around, Celeste. My life is different since we got together. I love you so much, sweetheart. Colours are brighter – more powerful – more violent and vibrant. It's all because of you. You've changed my world, ever since you showed me first you loved me. We're together. We are together. Nothing changes that. Your life is nothing without me in the same way. You can't leave. You won't leave. Stay. _

_All I can think about is you. You're the only thing on my mind. I open my eyes and I think I see you. Whenever I exhale in the cold I see your face coming out of my mouth. Every time I go under you're all I see, all I'm with. I fell in love with you on accident – and you fell in love with me accidentally. You're the only thing keeping me here, keeping me at this shitty school. Nothing else matters. No one else matters. Seeing you is all that matters. Being with you. Fuck, Celeste, just see me. Stay. _

_I'll die if this ends. I'll fucking die. You're what matters to me – and I know I'm what matters to you. I know it. We're in love – we are, you know it. You can't leave me. You can't. But if you do, I fucking swear, I'll take a knife and choke it down, slice it through. Throw myself off the Tower of London. Make a noose from barbed wire. I'll die. And you'll fucking go down too. Don't leave me. I'm desperate. Love me. Stay. _

_I can't let go of you, you fucking cunt. You've trapped me and I have to have you. You left. I told you to fucking stay. I told you. I warned you. You didn't listen, bitch. Why didn't you just listen? Why couldn't you stay? This is all your fault. Bitch. Cunt._

Dozens of emails ended in this manner. One even came with an attached photo of her, walking down the lane, completely unsuspecting.

Celeste Paxton, who would have turned nineteen at the end of the week, had died at the hands of her biggest fan: a stalker.

These were the only clues, each one impossible to follow. The email address vanished, and tracing it took them too many places.

Greg sat down with her roommate again. "Had Ms Paxton ever mentioned to you anything uncomfortable that'd happened to her?"

"Sorry?" The young university student said. "What do you mean?"

"Just that. Did Ms Paxton complain of feeling uncomfortable or unsafe?"

"Not really." The girl said slowly, blinking away a few tears. "See, the thing is, Detective Inspector, Celeste and I don't…_didn't_ really talk. She was really shy. Wouldn't talk within an inch of her life unless I pressed her. I'd come home late from a party, and she'd always be asleep on her four-poster. She'd be gone when I woke up. I was really surprised when she started dating Billy, to be honest. It was like rooming with a ghost."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes…" The girl said, and then in a moment, "Why?"

"Now, I'm only telling you this because you might be at risk now." Pressing his lips together, Greg said simply, "She's been getting emails for months, and it looks like she had a stalker."

"Oh, my God," She stammered in sudden horror. "There was one thing. It happened at the beginning of the term. One of the only conversations we had."

Greg nodded. "Well, go on."

"Well, she asked me what I'd do if some bloke fancied me who I didn't want. My first reaction was to just shag him and see if things get better." She paused. "Celeste wasn't exactly thrilled with that idea."

"I wonder why," Greg muttered dryly.

"Then…then…I told her to just ignore him. That he'd get the message. But, _Christ_, I thought it was just some prick from around campus wanting to take her on a date!"

Greg and his men searched and searched, looking over photograph upon photograph, trying to make sense of it all. They searched every Internet café, every connection.

He looked into her professors – almost none of them knew who she even was, and those who did described her as cut-off, shy, and probably lonely – but she wrote one hell of an essay.

She had written one essay of particular note, about the American short story, _The Most Dangerous Game. _

One line struck Greg in the pit of the stomach.

"_And nothing," _Celeste had written. "_No simile or metaphor existing in the English language compares to the feeling of becoming living prey. At least, not quite like this. 'He lived a year in a minute' (Connell 12). For the feeling of having a character like Zoloft against a person, every minute becomes a year. Someone only eighteen feels one hundred, and waking up every morning unscathed turns into a victory in itself." _

They looked things over, and then they double checked, and then they triple checked. Every last suspect they looked over came out clean. Billy, her roommate, her roommate's friends, her professors, students with mutual classes, students walking in her way on a daily basis. If any of them had a clue as to who Celeste Paxton was, they had an alibi or a lack of motive, or lacked the intelligence to keep a crime scene so pristine.

It drove them around the bend, the unsolved case, the stalker still on the loose, and (worst of all) young Celeste's family forced to realise she was gone, and it didn't look as though Detective Inspector Lestrade could ever deliver them justice.

After three months, the case closed. Unsolved, and stuck in the back of Greg's mind every May, with a few new wrinkles as a result, and the beginning tint of silver in his hair.

* * *

**Author's Note: This story – gasp – is **_**finally **_**done. It's possessed me for weeks. I haven't been able to do, like, ANYTHING else since the idea entered my head. The writing process is complete on this story, and submissions will come every other day. **

**Special thanks to RLSchmid719 for being an uber babe, reading early versions of this, and proofreading my horrid syntax. You rock. And roll. And stuff. **

**Now, dear reader, did you like the chapter? Hate it? Feel utterly indifferent and are now horribly angry with me for wasting your time? Please review and let me know! **


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

Fifteen years passed, and in that time, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade grew more accustomed to tragedies. Whether work-related (an unsolved case, a young child left for dead in the streets) or personal (his wife cheating, filing for divorce, Sherlock Holmes's suicide), it became parts of the ups-and-downs of life. Not that certain things never left new lines around his eyes and mouth, keeping him awake at night, or possessing his mind at the worst of times, but he now realised this was what he unwittingly signed up for, going into Scotland Yard as an over-ambitious young man of twenty-five.

As an older man, any romantic images of his profession were replaced with blood, torture, and heartbreak.

On good days, he fell into a routine. He'd wake up, alone and cold in his shitty flat. Afterwards came the obligatory dig for breakfast, and if he managed to find anything halfway edible he'd choke it down hastily before running to the shower. If he only had a box of baking soda in the fridge, he'd pick up a pastry on the way to the Yard.

When these good days came around, he'd sit in his office, rummage through paperwork, go for a walk at lunch, and return for another monotonous evening of filing, signatures, and the occasional silly cat picture his niece emailed him.

Greg saw John Watson a bit more in those days, the poor bastard. The younger man still sniveled and shook away memories sadly for nearly the full year, trying not to let anyone realise. While Greg was not anywhere as perceptive as their late friend, he was able to see passed John's façade of "everything's fine."

Of course, that was the façade it seemed everyone put on. Mrs Hudson tried, after a few months, but still seemed to break down almost every time she went into 221B, crying as she complained about the mess that still plagued the flat. Molly Hooper – a funny one – seemed paler and jumpier, rather than sad. She had been in love with the man, so Greg always thought, but he never saw her particularly devastated – nowhere nearly as devastated as John at any rate, but he knew different people reacted to grief differently, and thus decided against questioning it.

As for himself, it happened in such a blur he hardly remembered. He certainly remembered walking on glass around the Yard, with the threat of the sack hanging above his head constantly. He went on probation for a short period, before the Chief Superintendent allowed it to sort out.

The rest of it distorted. The defamation, tabloids spilling out how Sherlock's deceitful life story. Greg found it all a bit hard to swallow. It seemed unlikely that someone could fake all that. Stories John shared with him only solidified the unspoken truth – the papers were wrong: Sherlock Holmes never lied or faked anything.

There must be more to it than that. It was a moot point; however, they would never find out how, or why, or the real story behind it.

But, life went on. They caught criminals without the help of Sherlock Holmes.

John kept a job in a clinic, now that his time allowed for an ordinary life. Greg pushed papers, and sometimes spent weekends with Abigail Harris, a fellow divorcee he'd met in Starbucks.

He wasn't in a relationship with Abigail, at least not a real one. She had children from her previous marriage, and as she was a rather popular lawyer, they were both saddled with occupations that left little time for old fashioned dating. Instead, they met up on Friday nights, had a few drinks, shagged in his flat, and then said good-bye. It was all she had time for, and all he had patience for.

Perhaps this was why he woke up so shocked one morning in her flat. It took him a moment to realise where he was. Then the night before came flooding back to him. Picking up Abigail, taking her for dinner, then going back to her flat.

They hardly even made it all the way there, he remembered with embarrassment. He normally had better control than that. After all, he was in his forties, not his twenties. But, the combination of the way alcohol skewed his thoughts, and the way Abigail stared at him and kissed him, it made him feel much younger with much less responsibility.

Shortly after they closed the door for the cab and Abigail gave the cabby her address, she had pulled in at his neck, and bit at his lower lip, causing a groan. There, inside the cab, in front of a perfect stranger, he began to drunkenly pull up at her skirt, as she wrapped her arms and legs around him. He pushed up under her top, grazing the lace over her breasts, pressing into them.

Thankfully, they only got as far as foreplay before the cab skidded to a halt in front of Abigail's flat. She dragged him from the backseat of the cab, throwing her money carelessly to the driver, and pulled on his jacket all the way into the more private setting.

That's where the memory ended, as far as he remembered. He hardly minded. Deep inside his mind, he realised that while Abigail excelled in foreplay, when it came to sex, she was less than satisfactory. Still, he enjoyed talking to her, they got on, and she, at least, never had time to cheat.

Sitting up, Greg looked around the room, locating his clothes from the night before. Judging the amount of light in the sky, it was too late to go back to his own flat to change clothes. Brilliant. He knew of the tally some of the gossipy secretaries kept up of who returned to work the next day in the same clothes as the evening before. Not that it really mattered what they thought.

Throwing on his clothes again, Greg made a dash for the toilet to brush his teeth and manage his face. Here, he found Abigail again.

"Well, hullo, you." She said, with the toothbrush still in her mouth.

Greg greeted her politely, as the morning called for it, and she slid over to give him some sink space.

"If you want," she said, rinsing the toothbrush, "You can help yourself to breakfast. I'm running late for work, so I'm afraid I have to dash. Be in touch for next time?"

"Yeah, Abby." Greg grunted, kissing her goodbye. "G'luck with the trial today."

"You listened last night?"

"Believe it or not, I don't just take you to dinner for sex," Greg shook his head.

Abigail allowed a look to pass through her face, as though the thought never occurred to her. Then she smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

Shuffling into the office a few hours later, Greg grimaced to see the young, keen people who looked all together too much like him at their age. He halfway wanted to project Star Wars onto the wall, putting Admiral Ackbar's famous line on repeat. _It's a trap! _

He shuffled passed the Intern desks, seeing all the young, stress-free faces, buying coffee and pastries for one another, catching up on the latest water-cooler gossip. They were probably the worst. But, then again, only about a third of these bright interns would stay with the Yard. He hated to admit that he'd been around long enough to make the assumption realistically.

The new hires seemed a little less delusional than the interns. They appeared to comprehend the seriousness they dealt with on a daily basis and either made a huge deal from everything or made no fuss at all. Among these was a new transfer from the Somerset Police, a techie by the name of Collin Porter.

That morning, the aforementioned techie stopped Greg as he made his way to his office.

"Oh, 'Scuse me, sir. I was just backing up the files from the Delaney murders, and I was wondering if you wanted me to run full, differential, or incremental backups?" Collin gave the Detective Inspector a quick once over. "And you have no idea what I just said, don't you?"

Greg coughed, shrugging, and said, "Erm, differential sounds good."

Collin arched a brow, but then nodded, turning back to his pristine desk. "All right. Fine. Kind of sad about Delaney though. That's what's wrong with her, though. Too pretty. I dunno though, I think she's too flashy to get me going. Guess it's a good thing, though, her being a murderer and all."

"That's a little inappropriate, Collin."

"Right. 'Course. Incredibly sorry, sir," Collin said, not sounding sorry at all.

That was the thing about the new hires, though. They were young, impulsive, and often didn't check what came out of their mouths. It made Greg feel like an old man, much to his dismay. Although, he was fairly certain he spoke with more tact than that in his early thirties. Nearly every day, however, he couldn't wait to be away from it.

Did he hate his job?

Certainly not. He couldn't think of anything else suited to him. Constant routine was a plague – a little sat fine in his stomach, but to sit in an office pushing papers year after year after year, he figured he'd go insane. He liked to see the baddies put away and get what they deserved. He hated what they did, but for England to have even a moment's peace, because another murderer fell behind bars, it was worth the disturbing images.

The world was full of them anyhow, disturbing images. His career only made it a bit more apparent.

Life, in the past year, quieted substantially. Without Sherlock Holmes, well, anything was bound to be quieter. Yes, the occasional murder in a back alley still happened, but it seemed as though all the criminal masterminds disappeared along with Sherlock.

Or, as a very possible alternative, all the cases wound up as Dimmock's or another senior officer who never willingly asked for Sherlock's advice. The Chief Superintendent really held grudges, after all.

Either way, the crux of the matter remained Greg's life calmed substantially for the first time in the past five years. And it would stay just as calm, he reminded himself, not trusting the question nagging in his brain: was this better or worse than before?

That morning, Greg sat in his chair whilst munching on a frosted pastry and looking out the window at the busy London streets. Momentarily, a sudden knocking came at the door, followed by Sally Donovan pushing through.

"New case came in. if you want it, it's yours," she said with a definite nod, placing a hot paper, straight off the fax machine onto his desk, "And I think you'll want it."

Greg lowered a brow, looking down at the paper. No sooner had he skimmed the report, than his eyes nearly doubled in size, and he shot away from the chair, running out the door, leaving the pastry, forgotten, behind him.

He gripped the steering wheel harder than he had in years. The smooth plastic skidding underneath his hands as the whole car jolted around corners, bumping over curbs, speeding over to the scene. His hands turned white as he sped to the address Donovan barked at him from the passenger's seat.

Straight through stop signs, not caring about right of way, the siren blaring loudly in his ears. He had to get there. Quickly. He heard his pulse, fast, and louder than thunder.

The only way to put it: déjà vu. A young woman found in an abandoned building, completely naked; her throat slit in two places.

They were in the centre, a pack of police cars just behind and in front of them, racing along in the group, like a pack of wolves.

By the time they arrived, a few officers already stood in front of a blubbering middle aged man – from context the man who found the body – questioning him as he cried in hysterics.

"The basement," Donovan reminded him, ticking her head to the side.

Greg nodded abruptly, recalling the police report, and he turned to look at the building.

The crime scene, not to be cliché, stood in a dying neighborhood; one of many old and abandoned houses. Ivy grew on the walls, weeds climbed the fence, but the front walk swept clean. Several windows were broken, but there no cobwebs lurked in any corners. Upon approaching the house, Greg thought it worth noting the door swung open easily on oiled hinges.

"A bit selective on housekeeping," He muttered.

"Less expensive things," Donovan shrugged. "Not that strange."

Greg nodded in simple agreement. "Well, let's get going then."

With this, they entered the basement, accompanied by Anderson and the rest of the forensics team, to look over the crime scene. The stairs creaked and nearly broke under their feet as they entered the musty basement.

There she was, a complete callback to the last time. Completely naked, lying in a small puddle of blood, with visible vomit stains around her mouth and in her hair.

Greg risked a peek around the room, unable to see much dust. Running a gloved finger along a windowsill, he found it completely clean. An exact replica.

He coughed. "Check the room for prints. See if we can find anything. Check for cause of death, look for GHB or other drugs."

Thus the crime scene unfolded before their eyes. Anderson checked the room for fingerprints, concluded the cause of death due to haemorrhaging, and took some samples for the lab.

Meanwhile, Greg stood over the scene, looking for an open window, a clue of any kind. The poor girl, she looked as though she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Too young. He shook his head solemnly, full of regret.

Why this place? Abandoned houses usually fell victim to crime scenes, true, but with no windows open, and all the broken ones too small to fit through, a person would have had to walk through the front door. And since they locks had been broken for a long time (according to the man who found the body) that could be anyone.


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

This case. An exact recreation of Celeste Paxton. Aside for one thing, the girl, Shaelee Birdie, was older. About fifteen years older. It seemed as though the victims aged as the murderer did.

Greg stumbled into the morgue at Bart's with his hands buried into his pockets, combing over the information in his brain, trying to see if he forgot anything.

By the time he looked up, he found himself nearly chest-to-chest with an old friend of his.

"Molly?" he said, as though surprised.

"Greg?" she echoed in the same tone.

"Molly."

"Greg." She repeated with a small smile playing on her lips.

He opened his mouth, as though about to say her name a third time, but then thought better of it. Instead, he said, "Haven't seen you in ages."

Molly blinked with a small shrug. "Oh…well…I've been…here."

Greg nodded, and then coughed. "Well, er, I'm here on business."

_Of course I'm bloody here on business. Why else would I show up at the bloody morgue? Shit. _

Molly nodded. "Do you need to see someone?"

Nodding again, Greg shifted his weight over his feet. "Yeah. Shaelee Birdie."

"Oh," Molly pulled the body out from the wall, unzipping the body-bag to the dead girl's shoulders.

"What did your autopsy show?"

Molly blinked, looking at her clipboard. "Er…well…cause of death, obviously, blood loss, from the slit throat. Uh…dangerous amounts of GHB in her system. Brain shows signs of seizures."

Greg nodded slowly, recalling the exact report from fifteen years ago. There had to be something else. Something he missed. "Anything else?"

"Well," She paused. Normally, she never thought about this sort of thing, other than when she typed them for the records. It tended to become a bit too much. "She's mutilated completely. Cuts, burns, lesions - you name it, she has it. And it looks like it all happened when…when she was still alive."

Greg continued nodding, a grim expression on his face.

"And," She said slowly, turning a bit pink. "If it means anything to you, er…it looks like she had sex shortly before dying."

Sighing, Greg continued, nodding. Identical to Paxton. "Yeah. Unfortunately it does mean something to me."

Molly still looked pink. "Well…erm…that's it on the autopsy. Other than the cuts in her throat, and the drugs, she looks as though she could've lived to be ninety."

Nothing new. Nothing for a lead. No suspects. Greg almost hung his head in defeat. Only, no, this time he wasn't accepting defeat. It was the same killer – it had to be. It all went unchanged, evading the police the same damn way. This time, the bastard wouldn't get away. Somehow, he was going to get caught.

As he turned to go, however, Molly called out again.

"Greg," She said. "Don't wait on a murder to stop by again, yeah?"

Greg pressed his lips together, and then smiled softly. "Yeah."

With this, he waved good-bye, and exited the morgue as quickly as possible.

Molly watched him go, and instantly felt a fool. Again.

About a year ago, Sherlock advised her against all attempts of a relationship in the future.

His ability to be right could never be matched.

Then again, it hadn't really been a relationship with Greg. Had it? She wasn't even sure they were friends. They used to email, almost daily. It started with him apologising for how rotten Sherlock was the Christmas before, and one reply led to another, and their correspondences leaked into double digit pages. From the other end of a computer screen, she'd been a sympathetic ear through his divorce, and he talked her through the anniversary of her father's death.

Actually, it was partway because of him that she gave up on Sherlock in the first place.

With a sigh, Molly zipped up Birdie's body bag and placed her back into the wall. Scrubbing her hands with soap and scalding water, she sighed and decided to journey to the upper floors to grab a bite for lunch.

Molly was never terribly fond of the upper floors. In the morgue, at the very least, everyone was already dead. No worrying about crying family members, no worry that someone may wind up dead. There was no suffering down below. The suffering was ex post facto.

She never dealt with people on her floors. That was one of the nice things about working with post-mortems. Not that she particularly enjoyed working with the deceased. It was a job. She did get lonely from it, especially within the last year. But it wasn't so bad. She didn't think about death more than the average person; it didn't help her philosophically. It was science, and purely medical, without any attachments. She managed to stay happy with it, anyhow.

But, in the hospital, with rooms filled with the suffering, diseased and hurt, it became very apparent. Even worse, so it seemed, boiled down to the faux hope everyone held over their heads – that _maybe _it would be their mum who survived cancer, or their grandfather who suddenly regained memory from Alzheimer's. And the fact that the hope was so hollow. Nobody actually believed it. Maybe that was the heartbreaking bit.

Life _had _been awfully heartbreaking, though, since Sherlock disappeared. Molly shook her head, thinking about the mess that all turned into. Being one of the only people who knew exactly what happened to him turned was rather exhausting. And, perhaps, more of a burden than believing the pretense of his death.

After all, it was positively horrid to hold that sort of knowledge over people who were suffering so badly. She wanted to tell them somehow, tell John and Mrs Hudson and Greg, that Sherlock was really all right. To end the tears and stop the suffering it brought on. Yet, she couldn't. For some God forsaken reason, Sherlock found it necessary to remain, for all intents and purposes, dead.

She felt responsible for her part in their mourning – and it felt awful. Yes, she realised she helped save their lives from Moriarty's assassins. Somehow, however, that never cut it; at least not to her own critical self-analysis.

So, shortly after Sherlock's pseudo-funeral, she proceeded to withdraw from any friends with links to Sherlock Holmes. She kept her head down when passing John in Bart's, avoided Baker Street for fear of running into Mrs Hudson, and never attempted to reply to any emails from Greg.

Once she completely deserted everyone who she knew through Sherlock, she soon found herself retreating even further. Though she hadn't realised at the time, she fled away from those to whom he was only a name in the newspaper. It was so much simpler, easier, to curl up under a blanket with her cat and watch telly than to go out with friends. She'd always been more of a home-body anyway. Having no friends only bound her more to her flat.

Yes, she missed people – living people. People to chat to. Still, she couldn't manage that. Somehow, she just couldn't.

Knowing the truth could be so brutal when others suffered because of the lie. Making herself suffer along with them seemed like a reasonable punishment.

She tried to stay happy, however. That was an important part of working in a morgue – the potential of depression screamed in one's face if one kept a rummy attitude. Without any nameable friends, she taught herself to knit, caught up on the last few series on the telly she'd missed, and started to catch up on sleep she'd missed back at university.

She waited in line at the cafeteria. Then menu looked like pasta or factory-manufactured burgers. She didn't really trust the meat at Bart's, but she was getting awfully tired of the pasta.

"'Ey!" A voice came from behind her. "Y'stepped in fron' o' me, then."

Molly turned around, feeling the bridge of her nose turn pink. "Oh. I'm sorry."

The owner of the voice, a gangly, stubbly sort of man, stepped back slightly, a skewed grin on his stubbly face. "Never mind. Y'must be workin' 'ard…Ms…Molly 'ooper."

Molly wrinkled her brow slightly, wondering how he knew her name, until she remembered she was still wearing her lab coat and nametag. Then she smiled. "Oh, thank you, but I don't…I really shouldn't skip in a line."

"No mat'er," The man said. "'t's 'ospital food, Ms 'ooper. I'm not really rushin' 't ge' it."

To this, Molly let a small laugh escape her lips. Feeling the line move in front of her, she began to move forward, and wound up smacking right into the man in front of her.

He turned around, glaring through green eyes.

Molly blanched. "Sorry."

The man looked her over once, making Molly shift uncomfortably.

Then he smiled with closed lips. "No problem," he said diplomatically.

The man from behind her, coughed slightly, and Molly turned back towards him.

"_So…_" he said. "Morgue a'endant?"

Molly shrugged. "Pays the rent."

"Kind of anti-social, though."

Shaking her head, Molly said, "It's quiet, but I do get out some."

"Care 't prove it 't me?"

Without thinking, Molly let out a sudden laugh. Then, when she quieted herself, she realised she reached the front of the line.

"Why not?" She recited her mobile number for him, and then turned to get her lunch. "Oh, and what did you say your name was?"

"Billy," He said, "Billy Morrison."

* * *

According to her file, Shaelee Birdie worked in the London Library. Thus, Greg's investigation started there. The head of the library loaned him an office to conduct investigations, a big spacious area with mahogany tables and desks, velvet curtains with golden trim, and a full fur rug in the centre.

At first, he questioned a few librarians. Most of them said they'd never even seen Shaelee Birdie before ("Different shifts, you know?") or that they hadn't seen anything confusing or off about her before she died.

"One of those people," the librarians seemed to echo one after another, "who just melt into the bookshelves."

Towards the end of the day, they managed to question every librarian, but only one gave any sort of insight. Her name: Maryann Thompsen. A few years younger than Birdie, she seemed confused when she was called, but opened sympathetically.

"This must be about Shaelee, isn't it?" Maryann said through a thick Scottish accent. "Bloody hell, I couldn't believe it when I saw it on the telly."

"You knew her well, then?" Greg asked.

"Oh, no. Sorry." Maryann looked at her hands. "I don't think anybody knew her well. She was…quiet, you know? Disconnected. Lonely. Don't know much about her other than her name."

Greg frowned, jotting that down. That's almost exactly what Celeste Paxton's roommate said about her. "Do you know of any connections she had?"

Maryann thought on it, and shook her head ultimately. "Sorry. None that I know of."

Nodding, Greg gestured out the door. "All right. Thank you for your time, Ms Thompsen."

"There is one thing though," Maryann said, without moving. "For the past month, there's been this man walking her out every night. She wouldn't leave without him."

"Boyfriend?" Greg asked, looking more at Donovan than at Maryann Thompsen.

"Don't think so," Maryann said quickly. "I mean, I've been wrong before, but he seemed – well – gay as a picnic basket. Huge bloke, though. Looked like he could've been a bouncer in a pub, or something."

"Hm," Greg considered this. Then, he nodded to Maryann. "Do you know his name?"

Maryann seemed to think. "Jacob or Jason or something. Webber or Wilkes or Wilson, for the surname I think."

"Thank you. That was very helpful."

"No problem, Detective Inspector," Maryann said, smiling. She stood to leave, but then turned on herself. "You know, when I was asked to come in here for a questioning, I was expecting some old fat bloke with owl-glasses. I have to say this was a vast improvement."

To this, Greg coughed slightly, as Donovan escorted Maryann Thompsen from the room. Once the librarian left, the sergeant turned back to her boss.

"She seems off. It's possible could be her, you think?"

Greg shook his head.

"Oh, come on. Don't let your ego getting stroked affect – "

"No, it's not _that_." Greg snapped, wondering exactly how unprofessional Donovan thought he was. If anything that _did _make Thompsen suspicious. "Shaelee had semen found on her. We're looking for a man."

"Could've been a boyfriend, and Thompsen could've helped."

Greg paused. "Won't hurt to look into it. Meanwhile I think we should look into this bloke who walked Shaelee Birdie home every night."

The man's real name, as it turned out, was George Willis. It took about a night to find him. He lived in East London, and as it turned out, was a private detective, living in a shabby house, about twenty minutes outside the city.

Willis let Greg in on a heartbeat, large hands trembling, leading him into a slight excuse for an office: a glass desk, a bookshelf, and a small sofa, but appeared to be rather unkempt.

It all seemed a bit unprofessional for a private detective. Greg seriously doubted this would be the sort of man he'd trust his own life with. So why had Birdie?

"Obviously, Detective Inspector," Willis said, sitting down at his desk, "I'd been hoping you wouldn't be necessary with this whole tragedy. Hoping I could've handled it."

Greg nodded. "Could you tell us how it all went awry?"

Willis shrugged his shoulders and stared at his fingernails. "Wish I knew," he said, "I went to walk her to the library one morning, and she was gone. She didn't want me sleeping over at her place, so I'd go pick her up in the mornings, you know So there were those few hours where I wouldn't be there. But I have surveillance."

"Can we see it?" Donovan intervened.

Willis nodded slowly, reaching into his desk, and pulling out a home-burned DVD. Then, with his hand still in the drawer, he pulled out a thick manila folder. "Here's everything I got on her."

Donovan took them into her hands.

Greg stared at Willis. "Did the surveillance show anything before she went missing?"

Willis shook his head. "The DVD freezes between two and three in the morning. By that time, she was gone. She might've turned it off. She had a nasty habit of doing that, for whatever reason."

"And what did she say when she hired you?"

"Same thing everyone says, I suppose," Willis said, looking up at the older detective. "She wanted me to keep an eye on her – figure out who was following her and sending her emails."

"Did you?"

"I would've turned him to you boys had I found it," Willis said, shaking his head, then he turned slightly green and said to Donovan, "Boys being a broad term, o'course."

Donovan simply lifted her brows, but continued staring through the Private Detective.

"Any leads?"

Willis shook his head. "Afraid not. Damn elusive, that one."

"Not to sound – rude – or anything," Greg said slowly. "But is there a finite reason she opted for a private inspector over the police."

A twinkle grew in Willis's eyes. "A few years ago, she was a link to a drug bust in a prostitution ring. Wasn't terribly keen on that part of her past coming up – or prosecution on it anyways."

Greg nodded slowly and began to stand. "Well, I think we've heard enough. Thank you, Mr Willis. We'll be in touch."

Upon returning to Scotland Yard, it was already nearing midnight. Greg stared at the file, still unopened on the desk. Anderson checked for fingerprints and saliva, and upon only finding Willis's returned it to Greg for examination.

With a sigh, he opened the folder. The front page seemed standard for such things, a Polaroid of the victim from when she was still very alive, a hand-written note of the complaint, and across the top _SHAELEE KINNA BIRDIE_ typed hastily and blurred onto the opposite side of the folder.

Greg picked up the note of complaint, and, putting it under his office light, began to read. The standard complaint of stalking. Setting his brow, he chewed on a pen. Why would Shaelee Birdie invest in a private detective to help her, when the police would be more effective?

Perhaps, Greg thought in a moment, seeing a metaphorical light bulb illuminate in his skull. She was afraid to involve the police or court system. Making a note to check if she had any sort of criminal history they might have missed, Greg continued to look over the file.

The second page was a log of happenings.

_10 January 2012 – emails began. _

_15 July 2012 – emails become more pressing – seem to evoke a fictional relationship between client and stalker. _

_30 January 2013 – stalker begins to text her – untraceable phone (disposable). _

_12 February 2013 – emails become desperate and threatening. _

_24 February 2013 – constant watch over client. Stalker has begun to phone her and send photographs. _

_4 March 2013 – client has gone missing. _

Behind that laid logs of her spending, receipts, and tickets from the past year. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Thus, with a sigh, Greg returned the file to the rest of the evidence, and shrugging on a jacket, headed out into the late night air.

* * *

Molly just settled into what she interpreted as an ideal evening. With a warm blanket draped around her shoulders and a warm cup of tea in her hands, her new MacBook open to her blog, fuzzy faces of adorable kittens staring back at her.

She hadn't written in her stupid blog in a year. It seemed as though everything on it involved Jim—_Moriarty_. They met through it, after all, him logging on and asking if she was the "one with the nose" who worked in the morgue. He was probably the only one who even bothered to read it. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Still, a small, nagging part of her wanted to continue blogging. She started for a reason, after all. To give her a place to put her thoughts, if anyone cared enough to check. She sighed and put her fingers on the keyboard.

_O.K_, she typed. _I know I said I wouldn't update anymore. But _

She furrowed her brows, taking a hasty sip of tea, watching the cursor blink back at her. Taunting her. She knew she wanted to say something, but she didn't know what to say. But, _what_? Now that she recovered from Ji—Moriarty and she knew what really became of Sherlock, she wanted to start blogging again? How stupid did that sound?

Sighing audibly, causing her cat to run to a randomly selected other room, she let her head flu backwards, hitting the wall behind her.

That brief exchange in Bart's cafeteria – with that Billy bloke – hadn't added up to much. He'd never texted, actually. That couldn't be blamed. Hospitals aren't exactly a good place to find dates – if that's even what he wanted. Molly held serious doubts that anybody would want her – and really want her. Not just to get to someone else. Not just to help them slip under any sort of radar. Not just for sex. But the kind of thing she had thought of when she was a little girl, watching Disney movies on Saturday nights. She wasn't even sure that's what she wanted – everything just made it all so confusing.

"What do I even want?" She sighed out, to nobody in particular.

As though a response, a swooping sound came through the speakers on her laptop. An email alert.

Picking her head up abruptly, Molly sat her cup down on a coaster, bringing up a new tab to her email.

To her surprise, several unread emails popped up. Some forwarded chain letter her Mum sent (_Delete_), a request on Farmville (_Delete). _Something from an alias she didn't recognize, figuring it some sort of scam, she sent it promptly to the bin, as well as any emails like it. The last, she had to do a double take, make sure she wasn't just daydreaming. Surely enough, there it was. _Greg Lestrade. _

She clicked to open the mail.

_Molly- My niece sent this to me. Thought of you. _

Molly grinned, and found the attachment to the bottom of the window. Upon opening said attachment, was a photograph of the single most adorable sleeping calico kitten she'd ever seen, with its tiny pink nose and long whiskers standing up.

She hit the reply, and quickly began typing. _Thanks, Greg. That was sweet. - Molly. XxxxxX _

And then, just like that, she hit "Send."

For some reason, for the rest of the night, she couldn't wipe the grin off her face.

* * *

To clarify a few things, Greg reminded himself whilst staring at his email inbox. He did not fancy Molly Hooper. Sure, he liked her well enough. And, if he was to be completely honest, thought she was well fit, but that wasn't the point.

The point itself remained shrouded in ambiguity. He couldn't really draw the conclusion himself. He'd come to count on her emails, a high point in the day, where topics ranged from serious day-to-day problems, to trivial facts and jokes. Then, they'd stopped. He couldn't think of anything he'd done to upset her, so she must've found a better way to spend her time. It had hurt a bit, for some unknown reason, but it wasn't much of a stretch to the imagination to realise that Molly had better people to spend time with and more important things to do.

The important part, however, remained in the facts: he didn't fancy her. He just had to remember that little detail. He cocked up romantic relationships, and Molly didn't need a cock-up. Not that she'd even _want _him. She deserved someone who could give her more – and do it better.

No fancying done on his part. No, sir. It wasn't as though, when he retired for the night and managed to clear away all thoughts of the crime scene and Shaelee Birdie, he started to think about that visit to the morgue. And Molly. And – _fuck it_. He wasn't going to think about this. He wasn't.

_Focus, Greg, _he thought, swiping through his fringe.

Where to go now? Birdie's workplace hadn't helped at all. He ought to backtrack, he realised, and have a look in her flat. Just because there was nothing in the dormitory for the original case didn't mean there wouldn't be this time. Sherlock once said, killers always make a mistake.

Soon Greg found himself in the car again, driving down alleyways he'd never know of had he not entered this profession.

It only took a few minutes in the cold car with Donovan in the passenger's seat, until they came pulling up to a small, rather dodgy-looking, flat building. Climbing to the door, they rang the doorbell. Shortly afterward, the landlord sleepily pushed the door open in ratty pyjamas. With a quick show of identification, the keys to Birdie's flat wound up pressed into Greg's hands, and he pushed the door open.

Shaelee Birdie's flat was rather plain. It looked almost like a man's flat, no pictures or girlish décor graced the walls, the curtains were plain and black. The walls were white and dirty with black handprints. There was a shockingly small telly on a rickety tray, a moth-eaten sofa shoved into the corner, and the carpet thinned, nearly worn through.

"Look," Donovan said. "There's dust on everything. She must've been away for a while."

Greg nodded, "Yeah…write that down, Sally."

In the next room, a small fridge hummed, and a gas stove loomed in another corner. A small kitchen table, with a single chair.

Wandering around the plain room, they looked inside the fridge. A loaf of bread, and assorted vegetables lay out in a rather colourful spectrum.

In the adjoining room, the shower curtains laid hastily on the ground, pulled from the rod, but there were no other signs of a struggle. Spit patterns stained the mirror, and Greg allowed one corner of his mouth turn up, thinking about what Sherlock would have said had he been there. Just from that, he might've been able to tell exactly how Birdie was taken, and maybe even where and who took her.

The only other room in the flat, turned out to be her bedroom. A neatly made bed, a plain, thin, blue bedspread. Perfumes sat, arranged in some kind of pattern on the dresser over a small vanity table. There were several large piles of books in the corner, reaching up about a meter.

"Hey, Greg?" Donovan called, standing with the closet door wide open. "I think this could be important."

Greg walked over. At first, the closet looked completely average. A few bland, beige shirts and skirts hung up neatly, a few wrinkles betraying the fabric. Inside, he saw about five pairs of shoes hanging up over the door. As his eyes fell to the bottom, however, he saw what Sally meant.

"Didn't they already take that?"

"They took _hers_." Donovan sent him a meaningful glance.

There, on the bottom of the closet, laid a jet-black laptop.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Terribly sorry about the delay! :-] Please enjoy the next chapter**!

**CHAPTER THREE**

A bag of cat litter. That's all Molly wanted. She hadn't been paid yet for that month, nearly run out of cash, but she never imagined her card would act up like this.

As she swiped it through the machine, the cashier sent her a funny look.

"Hm," The cashier said. "Try it again, please."

Molly nodded, a bit confused, but obliged.

The cashier stuck out his lower lip in confusion. "Says that account don't exist."

"What?" Molly said, blinking. "I was just here yesterday and it worked fine."

Shrugging, the cashier said, "D'you have another card?"

Molly burrowed through her entire wallet – not a single card worked. A kind freckled stranger from behind her in line wound up paying for it, and even spotting her cab fare. Too shy to refuse, she blushingly accepted the stranger's generosity, all the whilst inwardly panicking over what might be happening.

She'd said thank you very quickly, shook hands with him, and rushed to the nearest LINK but her PIN did not work, her card echoing the cashier's words. The card wasn't linked to an account.

In the cab ride back to her flat, Molly called the bank.

"Yeah," she said into the phone, "It never responded…my name's Molly Hooper…I need to spell it? M-O-L-L-Y H-O-O-P-E-R. I was born in 1981…wh-what? I'm sorry but-What do you mean? There's…there's no account? I've been with this bank since '94! My dad's will money went into it. Look for him, won't you?"

She couldn't believe it.

According to the bank, the account never existed – apparently she had no account with them at all. No papers, loans, savings, checks, or credit. Not there, and apparently, nowhere in the whole of the United Kingdom.

"This doesn't make sense," She shook her head, biting into her fingernails.

"Maybe your name got mixed up in the system," The teller wheezed from the other line. "Do you have a driver's license? An identification card?"

She read the teller the number on her identification card, slowly, making certain to avoid mix-ups.

"I'm sorry," The teller said, sounding stunned. "There's no one attached to that number."

Molly blinked. "There has to be."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"So…wh—what are you saying, exactly?" Molly felt her chest start to collapse on itself.

According to the bank, she didn't exist.

She sat in the cab, utterly dumbfounded. Why was this happening? Banks made mistakes all the time, she was certain, but weren't there precautions? How quickly did it take someone to strike a whole life from any records?

Did someone get her numbers and close all her accounts? Maybe they took the money and ran. Of course, that didn't explain why the teller told her that she'd _never _had any money or records there.

She was starting to get a rather massive headache. In the morning, she resolved, she'd look into it more. Not that night, though. She was too emotional. She'd learned that emotion doesn't help when trying to get to the bottom of things.

The money the stranger handed her in the store went to the cab driver, and she walked back to her flat, more slowly than necessary, a sudden paranoia came over her—fear her key wouldn't work in the door, that her lease records burned with the rest of her papers.

Thankfully, the wracking paranoia wound up being rather unnecessary, and her key admitted her into her flat without hint of anything amiss.

She shuffled in through her doors, hanging up her coat and quickly setting into her daily routine. She filled a bowl of food and fresh water for Toby (who suddenly seemed very interested in what she was doing), made herself a sandwich for supper, and made herself cozy in her armchair.

That's when she grew frightened. It was kind of funny, almost. She'd always disregarded money, taking the rather juvenile belief that happiness, with people who loved you, was a better source of riches than rolling in money. She had to admit – it was easy to say that when she knew she had enough in the bank to support herself.

She shook her head. It was just a mess up with the records.

Pulling out her mobile, her thumbs darted across the screen, calling her landlord.

Once niceties and greetings were exchanged, Molly sighed. "Look, I don't know what happened, but there's a problem with my bank account."

Her landlord gave a slight gasp. "My _gosh! _Oh, hon, what happened?"

"I don't know. I'm getting it looked at tomorrow. But…" She winced. "But, I might be a bit late on rent. I don't know…I'm not sure how long this will take."

If not for the static over the wire, it would have been silent.

"Molly, you already paid us for this month. Next month, too. I think you'll be fine."

Molly blinked. She hadn't paid them yet. _What is going on? _

"Oh." She said, trying to calm a rather disturbed feeling in her gut. "Well then…that's good, yeah?"

"You're stressed," The landlord said. "Go, take a nice hot bath, and calm down. I'm so sorry to hear about what happened though, so truly sorry. If it takes longer to get everything sorted, we won't sack you or anything."

She smiled into the phone. "Thanks," She said, gratefully. "Give my best to your husband."

"Of course," The landlord's voice hinted to a smile as well. "Good night, Molly."

She blew her cheeks full of air, and began to fidget with her hair, splitting her ends. Her accounts closed as though they never opened. But somehow her landlords had gotten the next two months rent – and they didn't get it from her.

Utterly baffled, she continued to pull at her hair, when she heard Sherlock's voice reverberate through her head. _"You're an idiot – it's all right, almost everyone is." _

She sighed, suddenly annoyed on top of everything else.

Shaking her head at the whole ordeal, she cracked open her MacBook, she opened an empty document and recorded what happened, just as she remembered it. Just in case.

* * *

"Let's review," Donovan said on the drive back to the Yard. "We know Shaelee Birdie was stalked, at least since last January. She enlisted a private detective to help her – "

"Instead of the police." Greg chimed.

"Well…yeah." Donovan ticked her head, as though it didn't ring the same meaning for her. "Anyway. She went missing a few days ago, and then was found. She had no friends. And suspects are, that colleague, Maryann Thompsen, and George Willis."

Greg nodded, pressing the steering wheel harder into the palm of his hands. "We need to see if any of them relate to Celeste Paxton. If we do, we've found him."

"You seriously still think it's him?"

"Same method for murder – exactly the same. You know how stalkers basically fill out a profile when they chose who to stalk? Both girls were quiet, anti-social, with few friends."

Donovan sighed. "All right. It's fishy, I admit."

Greg nodded, leaning slightly against his hand as they drove back to the yard. "Let's have a look at the computer, though. See what we're dealing with."

With a slight pause, Donovan said, "Are you sure you're not just inventing similarities when there aren't any?"

"Why would I do that, Sally?"

Donovan shrugged. "I know it's always bothered you that you never solved it. Maybe you figure you'll feel more competent if you catch the man."

Greg remained silent. "It's still the same, though. Every detail, just with an older girl. Copycat killers don't wait fifteen years to strike again."

"Neither do the original killers," Donovan muttered under her breath before staring out the window again.

Upon arriving back to Scotland Yard, they found nearly all the interns had departed for the night, and many of the new hires straggling from cheap Styrofoam cups of coffee, staring blankly at computer screens.

Greg shifted the laptop under his arm, and walked rather briskly to one of the closest desks to his own office.

Anderson sat, leaning on the flat of his hand, watching screen captures of a microscopic view of mold.

"Anything new?" Greg asked, announcing his and Donovan's presence.

Anderson shook his head. "Thought the mold from both crime scenes might match. So far that's a no." He made brief eye contact with Donovan, who promptly looked away.

_Bloody hell, _Greg thought. _Not this again. _

"Something new for you," He said, rather than voicing his thoughts. "Found it in Birdie's flat. Check it for prints and see if you can unlock it."

Anderson nodded curtly, and then muttered, "Isn't unlocking it better suited for Collin?"

"He's not in," Donovan intercepted. "Besides, it's not that hard, just run the programme."

In only a few short hours Anderson managed to look for fingerprints on the laptop. He managed to find a single definitive set. Only one person ever used the computer. Yet, when he ran it through the system, no matches came through. Not only of criminal history, but no matches from any census, or any other database. As though the person to whom these fingerprints belonged did not exist.

A few hours later, after running an extensive-looking programme per Donovan's suggestion, Anderson managed to unlock the computer. The results sent shivers down Greg's spine.

There were only three items on the entire hard drive. The first folder, labeled _1998, _only proved him right.

The entire folder was filled with photographs, old and hastily converted onto a computer, all in black and white. All of Celeste Paxton before she died. Most of them appeared shot around a corner, as she left a lecture hall or a restaurant. There was one with a red 'X' covering the extent of the photograph – one of Celeste holding hands with Billy.

The next folder, labeled _2011, _looked similar, but with Shaelee. Black and white photos of her driving, leaving the library, one even through the window near her kitchen. One of her pulling a nightgown over her head. One, causing Greg's skin to crawl, seemed to be taken from the inside of her flat. Perhaps even from the closet they found the laptop in the first place.

Then, sitting exactly below it on the desktop, a third folder. _2013. _Greg felt his heart pound.

"He's got a new obsession," he muttered.

Anderson moved the track pad over to the folder in question, and double clicked.

This folder was different. The photographs were all in colour this time, and most of them from behind. Just as before, the subject standing in the street, walking through black double doors, photographs of hands and shoes and feet. Nothing through windows yet, nothing half-naked or super personal. She must have been new to him.

As Anderson clicked on a photo to enlarge it, and thus make the subject recognisable, Greg's jaw fell.

He suddenly felt his whole body deflate. His stomach dropped through the floor, and he felt as though someone just grabbed his heart from this chest, a huge black veil covering him entirely.

The girl in the photograph…it couldn't be.

Oh fuck. Shy. Lonely. Quiet. Few friends. She fit the fucking profile perfectly.

Sitting inside this deranged man's computer, was a collage of about fifty photographs of her. Never before in his life had Greg been so upset to see Molly Hooper.


	5. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

The bell rang at 1:34 in the morning. Molly groggily rolled out of bed, accidentally tripping over her cat, who hissed and clawed at her shins.

"_Ow!' _She groaned, feeling the claws dig into her leg. "Toby!"

The cat, Toby, dashed under the bed, tail twitching visibly in the dim light.

Throwing on her bathrobe and yawning loudly, Molly began the short journey over to the door.

Pushing down on the intercom, she sleepily asked, not realising just how rude it was, "Who's there?"

"Erm. It's Greg."

"Greg?" Molly racked her half-asleep brain for a moment.

The voice from below grew familiar in her sleepy stupor as it answered. "Greg Lestrade?"

Funny how, in that moment, Molly was suddenly very awake. "Oh. Right! I'm so sorry…"

"'T's all right," He said. "Mind if I come up?"

"No. Not at all," Molly said, voice beginning to be frantic, as she rung him up. "Come on in."

In the next moment, she found herself in a frenzy. Running to the washroom, she took a look at herself. Pink polka-dotted pyjamas with a plain scoop t-shirt. At least they were clean. She didn't have time to change anyhow.

_Change for what? _

She grabbed a clip and twisted her sleep-tangled hair into something that looked, at the very least, tidy. Then she squeezed toothpaste onto the brush and quickly began scrubbing her gums.

_For what? _

She didn't know if she expected anything to happen. All she knew was that it was 1:30 in the morning, and someone was at her door.

Then came the expected knocking. Molly, without thinking, made a beeline across the flat. She made a quick check at the peephole, from mere habit, and seeing Greg's tired face, quickly opened the door.

"Greg," She said smiling. "Come on in."

The smile melted away, however, within a moment. His face was grave. She hadn't seen him this upset or angry since his wife left him.

"Oh, God, what's wrong?" Molly asked, ushering him to sit down on her sofa.

Greg's fingers traced a circle around his brows. "Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure," Molly said easily. Then she paused. He looked awful with dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed to sway on the spot from exhaustion. "Can I get you some coffee or something?"

Greg, with a slight grin betraying him, sighed, his shoulders deflating with his chest. "That would be _great_."

Molly nodded and quickly disappeared into the kitchen, surprised to see Greg stand, beginning to wander around, his eyes darting around the flat.

They were quiet the whole time Molly bustled around, making the coffee. Greg remained silent and contemplative, tight-lipped with tired eyes.

He looked around the flat. It seemed so very different from the previous two victims. Celeste's dorm and Shaelee's flat had been equally plain. Molly's flat, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. The walls were painted a light green, pressed photographs of flowers lined on the walls, with carnation-printed curtains. A vase with a small bouquet of white roses sat next to the sofa. The telly mounted on the wall laid under a table with a formal photograph of two middle-aged adults. Next to it, sat a framed photograph of a bridal party. Greg eyed the picture, trying to find Molly inside.

That quickly became yet another way Molly did not fit the same profile as Birdie and Paxton.– between parents, friends (or at least someone she was close enough to be her bridesmaid)- and enough time to decorate her flat, her lifestyle seemed very different from the previous two.

The kitchen and dining room were decorated similarly, girlishly with a few photographs here and there, with the pink, yellow, and light green colour scheme she seemed so fond of.

Once the kettle came to a boil, Greg and Molly sat down opposite each other at her small dining table.

"All right," He asked, coughing slightly. "First off, Molly, erm…"

Why was it so hard to question her? He questioned complete strangers all day, but then, when trying to help a friend, he found himself tongue tied.

Perhaps he ought to ease her into it.

"The photographs under your telly, could you tell me about that?"

Molly paused, one brow lowering. "You want me to talk about the photographs under my telly?"

He cringed, realising just how odd it sounded. "Yeah."

"All right then," Molly said slowly, looking as though she thought he was, perhaps, unwell. "My mum and my dad, taken on their anniversary the year before he died. And, erm, what's the other one?" She paused. "Oh, right. That's my cousin Emily's wedding."

"So you and Emily are close, then?"

Molly furrowed her brows at him. "No…not really. We made a pact when we were seven to be in each other's weddings. She lives in Liverpool so…" She faded. "Greg, what is this about?"

Greg sighed slowly. "You remember Shaelee Birdie?"

Molly nodded, trying not to remember the tragic autopsy. "Yeah."

"Well, her murder resembles a case I had about fifteen years ago," Greg said, starting to sway in his chair. "Celeste Paxton. We think it's the same killer."

Molly's voice broke. Just the idea of another girl mutilated in the way Shaelee Birdie had been was enough to make her squeamish. Softly, almost inaudibly, she whispered, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"We found his laptop." Greg said, holding his breath. He wished he wouldn't have to say this. He wished it wasn't true. "And there's an entire folder of you."

"No. That's impossible," Molly instantly said, closing up, water building up in her eyes. "I'm not…I can't be…I don't attract attention."

"That's what he looks for." Greg said slowly, after a moment. "Girls who don't attract attention."

At this, Molly sunk in her chair. "Y—you found his laptop. Don't you know who he is, then?"

Greg shook his head. "Anderson couldn't trace it."

Molly sat up again, and slowly started nodding, looking white as a sheet. "I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

"Need a minute?"

Shaking her head, Molly said. "I'm…no…'m fine. I just…I can't believe it. I haven't gotten any emails."

Lowering a brow, Greg sat back. That was unexpected. "None?"

"None."

"Huh," Greg said, making a note. "Looks like we caught him early. But, still, for your safety, we're going to give you a police escort to and from Bart's daily."

There seemed no certainty of how much good that would do – Shaelee Birdie had an escort to and from work. But they had to try something, damn it.

Slowly, Molly's chest heaved as she exhaled slowly. "So…he's…he's following me?"

Greg nodded slowly, watching as the woman across the table crumbled.

Molly lurched over the table, holding her head, starting to cry. "Oh, God."

"Hey," Greg said, leaning over the table, fingers brushing her hand slightly before retreating. "I'm here for a reason, yeah? You're not going to turn out like them. You're not. You're gonna be fine. We'll find him. I promise."

Professionally, he couldn't make that promise. At least not realistically. The odds stood against her, ten meters tall. That man evaded the police for years. He'd killed two young women before they were even reported missing. Greg had tried to find him once and failed. But this time – this time – it was different. He swore to himself no one would ever lay a hand on Molly Hooper.

XxxxxX

Molly felt like the last living specimen of some extinct species. She felt eyes on her at all times. Some of the eyes were apparent to her, police cars stationed in front of her flat, or on her walk to Bart's or to the store to pick up groceries. It was the invisible eyes that worried her. The idea that some man hid behind that bush or on the other side of the door, just waiting to kill her, never left her brain.

The paranoia was too much. She wasn't getting sleep. Nightmares awaited her every night. Images of being dragged from her bed by the ankles, of seizing uncontrollably while some man laughed at her eagerly lingered behind her eyes whenever they closed.

The police picked her up for work every morning, just as Greg promised. They called her mobile before buzzing into the flat, letting her know it was all right to let them in. They hailed a cab or walked beside her and led her up to the doors at St. Bart's.

Sometimes Greg came to escort her, and those were the days she preferred. He sometimes brought coffee and engaged in meaningless small talk to fill the freezing silence. As a bit of a change in pace, he walked her all the way to the morgue – normally the police simply walked her into the hospital and then left.

Constant fear soon became normal to Molly. She found herself afraid of every faceless stranger – could it be him? She cringed whenever her mobile rang or whenever she received an email alert – but it was never him. In fact, other than the reminder from the police, and the idea of being followed, she doubted she would even know someone was after her.

She still couldn't access records of any kind. Her bank account remained closed. She couldn't Even her degrees seemed void. Her Facebook account found itself suspended. Her blog disappeared. All mentions of her on the St. Bartholomew's website suddenly evaporated.

So, for two months, life went on in this manner. She woke up five times, at least, in a night screaming, frightening Toby to dash under the bed. A few hours later, she waited for the police to show up and escort her to Bart's, she'd greet them emotionlessly with her hands deep inside her pockets, and waited silently as they hailed a cab. She wouldn't look up, staring blankly at her shoes – too afraid to look up for fear she would find somebody staring at her.

Then came a day of work. She ran autopsies, kept the morgue clean, sewed up the postmortems, and recorded information all day long. She never took lunch breaks anymore. She worked straight through the day, and returned to her flat – hungry but unable to force herself to eat anything.

Perhaps because it was December by that time, (and as she was unable to pay her heating bill, the flat was cold enough for the windows to frost up from the inside) or perhaps, it was because she was always afraid. Either way, she always shivered.

As for Greg, he looked over all the evidence gathered from both Birdie and Paxton. He thought through the patterns, figured a mental map of how much longer Molly had before the perpetrator would start to close in. They had to find him before that. They just had to. He looked through lists of connections from all three parties, tried to find a similarity. A person they had in common. Who could it possibly be?

The lives of the three women were too similar for the man to have simply picked out a random woman on the street to follow. There had to be something. What was he missing?

Without warning, his mobile vibrated in his pocket. Greg took a brief look at it.

_Hey, stranger, _the text read. _Remember me? – Abby. _

Greg halfway cringed, but kindly replied. _I think so. – GL_

After he sent it, he realised that, though he intended it as a joke, more truth laid in the statement than he cared to admit.

He found himself wrenched from his thoughts as Donovan pushed her way into the office.

"Greg," she said. "It's been two months."

"I know."

Donovan began to walk slowly to the window, eyes staring out over London. "We still don't have any leads."

"I know."

She turned back to him. "But we do have Hooper."

Greg snapped to attention. "What are you saying?"

Donovan sighed. "We _think _he's following her. For all we know he could've planted us on this, and someone else is his new target while we're sitting here worrying over her."

Standing up, Greg began to gnaw on his cheeks. "She's the only lead we've got."

"Exactly."

Officially lost, Greg crossed his arms. "What?"

"If she is—_legitimately_- his new obsession, we might actually find him. He'll come for her. We can stage it and get him."

"Absolutely not!" Greg said, suddenly in a passion. "She's not some sort of guinea pig we can put in that position. He escaped the police twice – don't you think he'd know better than to show up at some set up? We can't let him kill again – and we're sure as hell not going to make it any easier."

"You're getting too worked up about this, Greg." Donovan said. "Get professional. Don't just let your own feelings get in the way."

"My own feelings?"

"You and I both know what I mean."

Greg shuffled back to his desk, sitting down. "I _am_ being professional. I'm protecting someone who is very likely to wind up on her own autopsy table. And I'm not going to encourage that."

Donovan stared at him, daggers for eyes. Eventually she nodded and turned away. "Unbelievable," she muttered, noisily marching through the doors.


	6. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"Hey, Greg, you all right?" John asked later that night. He accompanied Greg in walking Molly home that night, sensing the stress his friend was putting himself under.

Greg shook his head, burying his hands in his pockets. "It's Molly."

"Of course it is." John muttered, shooting a Look at him.

Greg opened his mouth to comment, but instantly thought better of it. "This guy…he's gone around the police before. I can't shake the feeling we're not doing enough. She's not safe."

"Can she defend herself?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"What?"

"Can she throw a punch?"

Greg considered. "Don't think so. Never seen her try."

"Well, I could show her a few things," John offered. "We could meet up – the three of us – and I could offer her a few lessons."

"You can fight?"

John sighed slightly, a bit perturbed. "I was in the army, Greg."

"As a doctor."

"But I still knew some basic fighting!"

Greg held up his hands in defeat. He considered this option. Though a far cry from a pacifist, he did not particularly enjoy the idea of fighting. Part of the reason he became a detective, after all, was the use of brain over brawn, even if he wasn't particularly gifted in either area. The image of tiny Molly Hooper in an alleyway trying to roundhouse kick Goliath made him want to cringe.

However, if Molly would ever have to use it, it would be best of she had some idea of what she was doing.

Then, he nodded.

"Yeah," He said. "That's a really good idea."

* * *

221B appeared very different from the way it was a year ago. At least, that's what Molly figured, staring at the empty space – chairs pushed against the wall, the smiley face with bullet holes faded substantially. The kitchen was, oddly enough, clean. Mrs Hudson fixed it up nicely, apparently, but just couldn't bring herself to rent it out again. Molly stood there, in the centre of the floor, feeling very out of place.

She hardly believed it when Greg picked her up that morning, telling her they had a bit of a field trip in store. She believed it even less when he told her they were going to Baker Street. And the least believable aspect of that conversation proved to be when he explained that John was going to teach her how to defend herself.

It had been an awkward entrance. Greg had quickly sat down next to the window, and began staring into his hands. John looked around the place, longingly, and then cleared his throat to turn to the subject at hand.

"All right," John said, shaking his head free of painful memories 221B Baker Street evoked. "The most sensitive parts of the body are the eyes, nose, throat, ears, stomach, knees, and groin. If you have quick access to any of those places, hit there first."

Molly turned a funny shade of green, as she nodded slowly. "All right then."

John stood beside her, taking her arm, and guiding it towards him, using her flattened hand to pantomime pushing up on his nose. "You can break his nose pretty easily with that. Use your thumbs to gauge his eyes, if you can. Clap his ears. But, your elbows, knees, and head will do the most damage. I'd say go with a knee to the groin, if you can."

Shaking her head, Molly held her arms out. "I can't do this. I've never hit anybody in my life."

"Molly," John said, softly. "This man will kill you. You'll be surprised what you can do in that moment before death. But, you're small. Adrenaline might not be enough—you'll need some basic technique."

Molly sighed shakily, nodding. "Yeah. Okay. Let's do this."

She was rather atrocious at self-defense. John easily believed she never hit anybody before. Her jabs were weak, slow, and, all together would do no damage if the situation called for it. She reminded him, vaguely, of a sickly lamb out in the field, just waiting for the wolves to attack.

"All right, all right," John said after fifteen minutes of rather pathetic practice jabs. "Let's try something else."

In one swift moment, John moved towards her, and before Molly knew what happened, one arm snaked around her neck while the other looped under her arm, wrapped up in a tense hold. He was not choking her, but holding strong as Molly started to squirm.

John shook his head, "Okay. Calm down, first off."

Molly stood still.

"Good." John nodded. "This hold, if someone pushes, can knock you unconscious in a few moments. I'm going to walk you through how to get out, and you have to try to break free, all right?"

He told her to move her head to face his elbow, then to widen her legs, bend her knees, and to grab his forearm.

She followed his instructions, gripping hard as she could.

"Good," John nodded. "Now knock me off balance with your bum and throw me to the ground."

Molly blinked. "Sorry…_what?" _

John sighed, repeated himself, and catching Molly's confused look in the mirror, simply said, "At least _try._"

She sighed. Thrusting her hips backwards, trying to knock John out of the way. She tried to use her full weight to her advantage, pushing backwards with force that could have easily knocked herself off her feet.

John hardly budged a centimeter.

Greg and John exchanged a look.

Shaking his head, John let Molly go, causing her to fall to the ground with a rather loud thud. He shook his head morosely. "This is gonna take some work."

* * *

As easy as it would be to just yell in her frustration, Molly tried to suppress the anger welling in her chest. All she wanted to do was go to Tesco without an escort. Then again, any I.D or cards she had would still be void. Still, she managed to pull enough money from between sofa cushions to buy Toby a few cans of food.

She waited, leaning against the front door, picking lint off her light green jumper. Lights in her flat barely made shadows recognisable with the curtains drawn as tightly as she had taken to keeping them. It was getting late to go out for cat food, but apparently she had to wait for nine at night for a police escort.

They were just doing their best, and Molly knew that. She felt positively awful for her impatience – they were just trying to keep her alive, after all. But, she never felt in any danger – any at all, perhaps that's what made the whole constant-police-watch ordeal a bit hard to swallow.

From inside her pocket, she felt her mobile begin to vibrate, and quickly pulled it out. She unlocked it, and blinked at the screen. Her text alert blinked back at her. It was from Greg. Well, certainly, he was the only one concerned enough to take her on such banal errands, she shook her head slowly, a smile forming on her lips as she read the single word on the screen, to let her know to open the door. _Toby. _

With this confirmation, she quickly twisted the doorknob, and allowed it to swing open, pulling it in towards her, just as Greg was about to knock, judging by the way his fist was in the air.

"Ready?" Molly said, cheerfully as possible.

Greg nodded, shifting from one foot to the other. "You know," He said as they began to shuffle down the stairs. "You really ought to wait for me to knock before you open the door."

Molly sighed. "Oh, I knew it was you, anyway. What does it hurt?"

As they began to walk down the street, they found themselves at a slight loss for words.

He walked by her side, glancing around himself, perhaps trying to see if anything was amiss. Molly walked on the other, her arms folded under each other, mostly looking at her feet.

In fact, her head drooped down so far, that she didn't notice when the Pelican turned from green to red and continued walking.

Greg immediately reached out, taking her arm in his hand, and pulled her back onto the curb.

"You all right?" He asked instantly, only beginning to notice the flushing in her cheeks. From the cold. Of course. His hands suddenly felt warm against her jumper.

"No—I mean, yes. Yeah. Of course." Molly said, stuttering and tripping over all her words, realising his other hand somehow wound up on her waist, feeling the heat creep up her neck and spread over her face.

"Greg? Is that you?" A high-pitched voice sounded from a few meters behind them.

"Abby!" He dropped Molly immediately and spun around to greet the pretty face behind them.

The pretty face simply raised a plucked eyebrow, and twitched her head towards Molly curiously. "Who's this?"

"Right," Greg said, suddenly up in arms. "Abby, this is Molly Hooper. Molly, this is Abigail Harris."

The women exchanged an awkward handshake, keeping their eyes glued on Greg the whole time.

"So, Abigail," Molly said after a moment of silence. "Do you work at the Yard?"

Abigail Harris stepped back, surprised. "No. Greg and I…we're…we _were _dating."

Molly's entire face turned beet red in an instant. "Oh, God! I am so sorry!"

Just as Molly uttered her apologies, Greg cocked his head. "_Were?" _

Abigail nodded. "Can I talk with you privately for a moment?"

Greg opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn't very well leave Molly alone, now could he?

Molly, however, nudged him forward. "I'm fine," she said, her voice low. "Public street, remember?"

He sighed, and then took Abigail a few steps away.

The moment they were away from Molly's earshot, Abigail turned to him, with a rather apathetic shrug. "I think you're done getting over it, Greg."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your wife. I think you've moved on quite brilliantly."

"Oh, Abby, it's not like that, it's—"

"Fine. It's fine." Abigail smiled slightly. "You've moved on to somebody you actually care about – and that's _fine._ She's cute, anyway. Doesn't seem like your type, but what the hell do I know about that?" She shook her head. "Anyway. I think we both knew that we were just passing the time. So we didn't have to be alone. It was fun. But there was no substance, and you know it."

Greg stared at her for a moment, trying to find the words that evaded him so cruelly. Eventually, he said, "I feel like that's a speech I would've gotten about thirty years ago."

"Probably. But you did know how to bring out the randy teenager in me." Abigail laughed, the voice ringing in the air. "Well, good-bye, Greg."

With this, Abigail Harris exited Gregory Lestrade's life, as abruptly as she entered. She couldn't help but feel some pang of remorse, or jealousy, that she was so easily replaced. Yet, she put on a happy face as she returned into the crowd to stand with her new client – a young man who found himself facing vandalism in his new flat.

"Ready to go back to the office?" Abigail said.

The young man blinked at her with intelligent green eyes. "What happened over there with your beau?"

She scoffed. "You make it sound so romantic."

Shrugging, he simply said, "It can be. Being with my girl makes me feel like I'm in some sort of romance novel."

"Lucky girl," Abigail shook her head.

"What happened?" He pushed.

"It's nothing really," Abigail continued shaking her head. "We're both adults – I can handle it."

"What _happened?" _

"It looks like he's been seeing someone else – someone much younger. It's not really a problem, you know? We weren't exclusive or anything. But still, kind of hurts, you know?"

He nodded solemnly as they began to cross the road. "So what's the slut's name anyway?"

"Molly," Abigail said. "Molly Hooper."

"Odd name," He commented, looking somewhat white as the scent bloody meat wafted in the air from the butcher's shop. "Whenever I hear the name Molly I think of cats…you know, mollies and toms. Just makes me picture 'em."

Abigail allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up until they reached the front of her law office. Upon pressing the doors open, a new air of professionalism reached her. "Well, that was a lovely tea break, but shall we continue our meeting?"

* * *

If not for Greg, Molly realised, she would have been alone on Christmas. Somehow, the holidays made loneliness more depressing than normal.

Before her father died, she always left London and shared the Yuletide season with her family. After that, she spent most Christmases with little more than a half-used carton of eggnog and a completely drowned bottle of rum.

Of course, in comparison to the year before, the idea of drunken solitude was preferable.

Still, for the second year in a row, she had a place to go for Christmas. Of course, she would have been much more comfortable if she knew _where _exactly that was.

She shook her head, clutching onto the carpet bag in her lap as though it was a lifeline. "Remind me again why I'm coming to your family Christmas?"

Greg cracked a skewed smile, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of them. "Because the rest of the team wanted to have their normal holidays, and since we haven't found any immediate threat over you, there's no reason to keep them or bother the people already working over Christmas. But…"

He faded, smile slowly going with it.

"But?" Molly prompted.

"But I don't see how your being alone on Christmas would make you any safer." He said, then, paused, making his tone airier. "Besides, it's nice to get away from London every once in a while. Fresh air and all that."

The drive to Dorset filled with jokes and chatting. Their laughs filled all negative space in the car. Molly found herself profoundly surprised in the ease of it all.

Ease quickly turned to dread, however, once Greg pulled into a long winding driveway. Molly childishly shut her eyes until she heard the car stop, suddenly aware of dark chuckling transfusing to her side from the driver's seat.

Abruptly opening the door into the snow, Molly found herself almost stumbling around, unused to the strange footing snow left a person in. She flushed, but recovered quickly.

Greg, noting this, kept his snickering to a minimum, and waited patiently for Molly to recover her footing over the snow. They walked slowly up to the door, stumbling over icy patches.

Arriving at the doorstep, Greg stopped for a minute. "Fair warning, Molly," He said. "In more than one way, my family's a bit…_big_."

Shortly upon ringing the doorbell, a stout wrinkled woman in glasses and a jumper covered in reindeer answered the door.

"Happy Christmas, Mum," Greg said happily, taking the woman into an embrace.

The woman chuckled happily, and upon noticing Molly, shot her son a sly glance. "Well, hullo there, dear! Oh, goodness, it's freezing out here, isn't it? Come along inside, both of you. We've just sat down for supper."

"Oh? Starting the drinking early this year then," Greg muttered under his breath, as he ushered Molly through the threshold.

Molly couldn't help but smile at the house. It was almost the quintessential home for the mothering type. Photographs of children in every stage of life lined the walls, garland draped over the stairs and walls, and the smell of baking cinnamon wafted through the air.

A young child climbed the stairs adjacent to them, looking over her shoulder. Her face split into a broad smile almost instantaneously. "_Uncle Greg!" _She shouted, balancing a large supper plate on the banister and sliding down it to greet her uncle.

"Happy Christmas, Pippa," Greg said, scooping up the small girl into an embrace.

The little girl grinned. "Did you get my last email?"

"'Course I did!" He smiled, letting the girl down.

"Aren't cats just _so funny?" _

"Sure." He nodded. "I think your supper's getting cold. Why don't you run into the playroom for your Christmas party with your cousins? Can't have an empty stomach at a party – against the law."

Pippa smiled. "You're lying, Uncle Greg."

"Yeah." He nodded cheerfully. "But it is getting cold."

Nodding, the little girl gave her uncle one last hug and dashed up the stairs, through the door to the playroom in seconds.

He turned back about, surprised to find Molly staring at him, head slightly tilted to the side, a funny look splattered across her face.

"What?"

She blinked, shaking her head. "Didn't know you were so good with kids."

From upstairs, Pippa's voice yelled through the house. "Uncle Greg's here!"

Another small voice chirped quite a bit louder, "I _hate _Uncle Greg!"

"Spoke too soon," Greg said dryly, gesturing for them to follow his mother.

"Everyone," Mrs Lestrade said cheerily, leading them into a large den, "Guess who just showed up!"

The sheer volume of the chorus greeting them shocked Molly, and she took a step back, before following through the door.

The room instantly quieted, everyone across from her entirely befuddled. Molly wanted to sink in through the walls, having a hard time reading the expressions displayed in front of her. Some people looked amused, some confused, some sly, and some she just couldn't tell.

Greg put a hand on her shoulder. "Everybody, this is Molly."

She gave a quick wave to the company who, still confusedly, reciprocated the greeting over their mashed potatoes.

A twiggy woman with artificially full lips stood up. "Greg, you didn't tell us you were bringing a guest."

Greg rolled his eyes. "It was kind of a…last minute thing."

"Either way," The woman said patronisingly. "We didn't get anything for her."

Molly shook her head. "Oh. I'm fine. I don't…_need _anything."

"Either way," The woman said. "It's Christmas, and he should've given us more warning. We didn't even know he was dating again."

"Oh, it's not –"

"I'm Johanna." The woman cut her off. "Greg's baby sister. You can call me Jo, if you want."

Johanna then looped her arm under Molly's and proceeded to take the liberty of introducing their new guest to everyone in the room. Molly wasn't able to remember exactly everyone, the number was a bit too large, but she could attach a name to a few.

Greg had two brothers, two sisters, and a whole hoard of cousins. She couldn't keep them all straight, and was somewhat afraid to try.

One thing Molly found somewhat odd, however, was that when Johanna introduced her to people, she tacked on their occupation. As this happened, she thought she saw Greg roll his eyes. Professors, surgeons, and administrators filled the room. It was a rather impressive group of people.

After introductions were through, they fixed plates full of turkey, cooked vegetables and potatoes, and Molly settled beside Greg on an overfull sofa. He shot her a glance at her, and she smiled, wondering why he looked so uncomfortable.

"So Greg," One of his brothers said, reclining on the armchair with a beer bottle between his knees. "I think this's been the shortest time you've spend between serious relationships, isn't it? Impressive. And, speaking of impressive, what is she? Twenty years younger?"

Greg rolled his eyes, thinking his brother's jests a bit juvenile. Then again, that's how it always went with his overly-competitive family. The only difference was that, this time, he was the target. Best to grin and bear it.

"I told you," he grumbled. "We're not dating."

"Oh come off it, Greg," Jo smiled. "It's a family party. Isn't there some unwritten rule about how family functions show that you're serious with this person?"

Greg paused, a very different scene flashing behind his eyes. _I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him, too. _He remembered standing haplessly in 221B while Sherlock tore into Molly, humiliating her over a gift meant for him. More than anything, he'd felt uncomfortable and sorry for her. At the time, he hardly knew her, but thought she ought to have known better than to try and evoke sappy feelings from the consulting detective – but he still thought it was a rotten thing for Holmes to do.

He shook himself back to his family as his brother weighed in again. "How long had you been dating your ex before you brought her to Christmas?"

One of his cousins joined the teasing. "I think it was a little over a year."

"Oy," His older sister slapped the cousin lightly. "It's rude to talk about his ex-wife in front of his girlfriend."

Molly looked into her hands, shifting uncomfortably.

"I have to say, Greg," Jo chimed. "We _were _getting awfully worried about you."

To this, Greg drew his brows together. "Okay. I'll bite. Why?"

"Well, I didn't _mean _anything by it. I just meant that we were concerned by the way things were going for you, is all."

"Jo, what are you talking about?"

She shrugged, spearing broccoli inattentively with a fork. "You know, with the divorce and your career almost going up in smoke. We were all worried. But, we're all glad to see how things have turned about."

Molly looked over to Greg who gave a disconcerted grunt before drowning his glass of wine.

"Might as well have lost it," He muttered quietly enough for only Molly to hear. "Never stands up anyway."

In this moment, a freckly set of twins appeared in the door, heading directly to Jo. "The little'uns are wondering when we'll give gifts," one said.

Mrs Lestrade heard the conversation, and stood in her chair. "Well, then. Let's clean up then and get started."

By the time gift giving was through, Greg was ready to head back to London. Unfortunately, that was a luxury reserved for the morning. He settled in on the softest bit of carpet he could find in the basement, as Molly made a makeshift bed from the sofa.

"Erm," He said after a moment. "Sorry about all that at dinner."

Molly shook her head. "It's fine. It was nice, actually."

"Nice?"

"Sure. I haven't seen a real, big family in a long time."

"You don't have one, then?" Greg asked, settling on his side.

Molly shook her head, and explained. Not having any siblings and lack of closeness to cousins seriously limited any sort of family functions. Large extended Christmases, Easters, or New Years ended when her father died, at least as far as she knew. Everyone went on with their own lives in her family – they didn't regale stories of their own lives, and they certainly never teased each other like this. Whenever they gathered together, it only reminded them they were surrounded by strangers. So, they just stopped.

"Do you like it better that way?"

"It's lonely." Molly frowned, pressing her lips together. "But it works for us, I suppose."

The basement fell into a deep silence, heavy in the air, nothing but the muffled thumping of overly eager nieces and nephews overhead.

Awkwardly, they both settled under their blankets. Lying on their backs, staring at the ceiling.

Molly's eyes darted around in the dim room. She heard Greg sigh.

"Your family's different than I'd expect," She muttered after a moment.

Greg propped himself up on his elbows. "How do you mean?"

Molly flushed. "Well…I didn't mean…it's only…they're really ambitious, is all."

Greg lifted a brow. "Competitive, you mean."

"It didn't seem that bad."

"It really is. Everyone's just trying to out-do each other." He shook his head. "It sums up why I only come down about once a year."

Molly sat up on the sofa. "You're not like that – you don't just try to outdo everyone."

"There's never been much point to it," He admitted, looking around, more at the carpet than anywhere else.

Molly nodded, prompting him to continue.

Swiping a hand through his hair, Greg sighed. "I don't know. It's hard to measure up to a sister with a PhD, and a neurosurgeon brother- let alone the rest of them."

"You're a senior officer for Scotland Yard." Molly said after a beat. "You help people. You're dedicated and smart."

"Smart." Greg repeated, not believing it.

Molly frowned. "You're good at your job."

"I was good at it, I don't think I'd need Sherlock as much as I did – and do. He at least knew exactly how stupid I am—wasn't afraid to say it, either. How I can be absolute rubbish."

Molly shook her head with an aggravated sigh. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand what's really important."

Greg looked up towards her. In the dimness of the room, she looked farther away, the shadows casting shapes across her face. A solemn look in her eyes pierced through him completely. Something contracted in his stomach.

"Thanks," His voice was nearly inaudible.


	7. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

In a darkened room, the man faced a glowing computer screen. His fingers darted nimbly across the flat keyboard, creating paragraphs in a matter of seconds. The love letter was almost complete.

The funny thing, he realised, remained that he knew Molly wasn't getting her love letters. He frowned, opening the tab to his anonymous email server. Hundreds of blank email alerts stared back at him, relaying the message that the emails sent bounced back.

He knew it was Molly's real email address, he didn't make stupid mistakes like that. It took him a while, but he soon came to realise that the emails sent to him, telling him the ones he sent out, weren't authentic.

Someone was in Molly's email and intercepting all his notes. He frowned at this, a slight fury building up inside.

Perhaps, he thought, some prick was stalking her. Making her life dangerous. She didn't even know it, poor thing. That's why she needed him, though. She was so defenseless on her own, so tiny and frail. In that respect, at least, she was perfect

He'd only ever had three relationships before Molly.

The first, Susan, would be impossible to live up to, he knew. And yet, that's what he wanted. Someone just like Susan. She was quiet, shy, and beautiful. She lived for him, she really did – always at his place, fixing him food and helping him clean up his room. But, she died. Out of the blue, she just disappeared.

It had taken him until university to recover. Celeste looked so much like Susan had, he remembered. That's what made him love her so much at first. Then, when she displayed similar characteristics to his first love, he thought he'd die from his desire to be with her. But then she went and fucked it up – cheating and denying him and all that.

He hadn't found someone good enough for another fifteen years. Sure, a friend of his recommended a few girls. Though it was terribly ironic, one of these recommended girls turned out to be Molly Hooper. But by the time he went to look at her, his so-called friend already swooped down and started dating her.

So, he found Shaelee. While she looked very little like Susan had, she had very similar mannerisms. Quietness, and the way she seemed uninterested completely in the company of men. He thought he'd found someone perfect that time. But then she went and made the same mistake as Celeste and cheated on him. Twice.

Really, he thought, infuriated at the memory, why did he attract so many whores?

But, Molly was different. Sure, she'd probably fucked his friend – but since that was before they dated, she could beg and earn his forgiveness. He honestly believed she might be the closest to Susan. She looked like his childhood sweetheart (though she wasn't blond – but that's what hair dye was for), and even acted like her. He halfway wished he could _thank _his friend for recommending her, but then that thought shut instantly, remembering how his friend had betrayed him.

He shook his head, and began to proofread his email.

_Molly, my little kitten, I know it's been a while since you've gotten an email from me. But, don't lose hope. I'll never give up on you. True love, after all, is forever_.

He considered adding in a bit explaining how someone was intercepting the emails, but decided against it. Women did tend to panic, even if he was looking after her.

_And that's what you've got with me: true love. Nothing can tare us apart. I wish I could have you straightaway. But, of course, that's not how it works. The thing about great love stories: people only ever get together at the very end. Fucking crazy, really. But, I think we should adhere to it, don't you? _

_I'll come for you soon, Molly. Don't lose faith in me. And don't wander. It might take awhile – some shit's going on that I need to fix before you're completely safe and ready to become perfect. But I'll come for you. _

He smiled, seeing his email went well. Then, on impulse, he tacked on a final bit of the message, before pressing send.

_I love you dear,_ it had said. _And you love me, too. _

* * *

A few days after Christmas, Molly invited Greg over to her flat for a bit of social interaction, if nothing else. They put in an old rental DVD and readied themselves for a fun night, away from worry of what lay on the other side of the door. Distraction was the key, and they seemed to provide that distraction very well together.

As Molly waited patiently, watching the Main Menu circle around for the fifteenth time, an abrupt ringing sounded from Greg's laptop, lying open on the sofa.

With a quick glance, she recognised the name on the Skype window. _Collin Porter. _

Beginning the call, she waited as the web cam adjusted to the room. Collin blinked in surprise. "Molly. Hi."

Molly waved to the techie on the screen.

Collin frowned slightly. "Where's Greg?"

"Kitchen," Molly gestured in the general direction. "He's getting popcorn."

"Oh." Collin said, suddenly uncomfortable, eyes shifting from one side to the other as though he wanted to say something. "So…how were your holidays, then?"

"Fine," She said. "Yours?"

"Had a nice Christmas cocktail at the pub," Collin said, a sly grin splattered across his pale features. "The cock was mine; the tail belonged to a pretty thing with a passion for Shakespeare."

Molly furrowed her brows and let a nervous gurgle escape her throat.

"Oh, come along now," Collin said, swinging his head to the side and reaching for hand sanitiser. "It was just a joke. Don't be angry. I didn't really _do _anything wrong."

"It's," Molly paused. "Fine."

Greg entered from the kitchen, a massive bowl of popcorn in his hands. "Who're you talking to, Molly?" He said, concern filling his voice.

"Collin," Molly answered. "I accepted the call, since you were away."

Greg grunted, nodded, and took Molly's seat in front of the laptop. "All right, Collin," he said, taking a small handful of popcorn. "What's going on?"

"Well," Collin said, typing something into his own computer on another window. "I was looking through the laptop, and I found something encrypted and hidden in the hard drive. Took me a while, but I recovered it. Sent it to you."

Greg frowned and looked underneath the video to see a file sent to him a few minutes before. "Okay," He said, moving the track pad over the icon. "It's a video."

Collin nodded. "Yeah. I wouldn't look at it with Molly in the room, though. Bit unprofessional, that."

"Why?" Greg asked, absently popping another piece of popcorn into his mouth.

"It's a sex tape." Collin said, leaning forward a bit, sinking between his shoulders.

"Uh…all right?" Greg asked, exchanging a quick befuddled glance with Molly. "_Why_ did you send me a sex tape?"

Collin gave a quick breathy laugh. "Sounds bloody awful when you say it like that." He shook his head again. "It's of Shaelee Birdie."

Greg's eyes shot back to the screen. "Okay. Go on."

"And you'll never guess who she's with." Collin smirked, a challenging spark in his eyes.

"George Willis?"

Collin shook his head, grinning mischievously. "It's Maryann Thompsen."


	8. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

As he entered the interrogation room, Greg held the folder underneath his arm, placing it on the table between himself and Maryann Thompsen.

"D'you know why you're here, Maryann?" He asked, sitting on the chair opposite her.

The librarian shook her head. "Afraid not, Detective Inspector."

With this, Greg opened the folder, placing photographed stills of the video on the table.

Maryann gasped slightly, looking quite seasick. "Oh, my God. How did you get this? She…she had a _camera_?"

Feeling somewhat sorry for her, he shook his head. "No. Somehow, her murderer filmed it."

Maryann seemed to freeze instantaneously. "Is he after me now?"

"No," Greg shook his head. "He doesn't seem to go after the girls' romantic attachments."

"We weren't romantically attached." Maryann said all too quickly.

"Sexually attached, then."

"I'm not gay." Maryann said, shaking her head frantically. "I'm not."

"I don't really care about your sexual preference. You lied in an interview with the police. You know how that makes you look?"

Maryann cringed. "I _know. _I'm not exactly proud of what happened, is all."

"What exactly happened, then?"

"I was feeling sorry for her," Maryann explained. "She seemed so alone. So I asked her if she wanted to go to a pub or something. I wasn't really asking her out. I had no idea."

Greg pressed his lips together, nodding for her to continue, and crossed his arms across his chest.

"Well," She coughed with a dry throat. "We had a few drinks. She told me she fancied me…and…I was pissed, too...I'd never had a girl flirt with me before…it just kind of happened."

"And you said," Greg quickly checked the record of his previous interview with her. "That you didn't know much about her other than her name."

"Other than her name, all I know is what she was like in bed." Maryann said, tight lipped. "And that's shaky – I was so pissed I nearly blacked out."

"You said that you didn't think she and Willis were dating because you thought _he _was 'gay as a picnic basket.'" Greg stared at her.

Maryann sighed. "Yeah. I reversed that."

"Why?" Greg said, realising that her response might make or break this case – it might be the missing link to finding out who stalked her.

With a sigh, Maryann gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "I was scared. I didn't want to become a link."

"You're linked now," Greg said, standing up and walking slowly around the table. "So you might want to tell me everything you know."

Maryann shook her head. "I don't know anything."

"Did she say anything about being followed? Emails? Being scared?"

The girl's eyes darted around the interrogation room. "Well…" She said slowly. "She mentioned a 'him,' once or twice."

"What did she say?" Greg demanded, hoping Donovan was behind the glass, recording this.

Maryann shook her head, squinting, and trying to recall. "That he wouldn't be happy if he knew."

"Anything else?"

"When we went back to her place, she walked around the flat with an umbrella quickly—looking in closets and such. I thought it was for stability, she was kind of swaying on the spot. But, that's it."

"Do you have any idea as to who 'he' is?"

Maryann shook her head. "No. I thought it was the bloke walking her to and from work every day."

Greg stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. "And you have no other ideas?"

"None at all."

"All right," Greg said, packing up the folder. Regretfully, he added, "We're done here for now. You're on record in investigation of Shaelee Birdie's murder and you _will _be charged for obstruction of justice."

Maryann's jaw dropped, tears beginning to arise through her eyes. Greg turned around on the spot, and left the interrogation room, still no further in discovering the stalker.

* * *

On Thursday, at noon exactly, Molly's mobile rang. She ignored first, finishing up the stitches on the current body on the table– a rather old woman who had lost her battle with pneumonia, poor thing. But then it rang again.

Molly felt her heart suddenly begin to race. The police didn't call her at work – at least not until they were ready to take her home. Her lack of friends limited the possibilities. Thus, squeezing hand sanitizer between her fingers, she rushed to the silver table. On the screen, to her horror only sat two words: **BLOCKED CALLER. **

She held her breath, her whole life flashing before her eyes. Afraid out of her mind.

Then, before she knew what she was doing, she picked up the mobile. Putting it to her ear, she croaked, "Hullo?"

"Molly," Came the voice on the other line. Deep, slightly cold, and extremely familiar.

"_Sherlock_?" Molly almost screamed. She cringed, and then lowered her voice. "What are you doing? Aren't you supposed to be – you know – playing dead?"

"Dull." Sherlock's voice came through clear as day and completely bored. "So you found out about your tail."

Molly's jaw dropped. She looked around the room, as though making certain she was alone, and turned to face the wall and lowered her voice, "You know about that? Are you in London?"

"Of course not – But I'm keeping an eye on everyone."

"All right," Molly said slowly, not sure if she wanted to press him or not, "Wait…so do you know who it is?"

"Obviously."

Molly's heart practically stopped. She waited for elaboration, but none came. "So who is it, then?"

Sherlock paused on the other line. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because," Sherlock, to Molly's rage, still seemed bored. "You wouldn't know if he came up and talked to you in the street—he probably has, asked for directions or the time or commented on the weather. If you suddenly recognise his face or name it would be suspicious. I can't risk you giving Lestrade enough clues to let him figure me out—it'd be odd enough that even _he _might figure it out."

"Amazing how you assume he'd automatically assume any correct guess would come from you."

"It certainly wouldn't come from you."

"Now, wait a second—" Molly began to protest, offended.

"I didn't call to let you know who's been following you." Sherlock interrupted her. "I called to let you know that I've been meddling. I've known that you've been followed for a while now – didn't tell you (what good would it do you?), but I've made certain he's kept his distance."

In spite of herself, Molly pressed her lips together. "How?"

"I've been watching. And deterring him from following you. I've been intercepting his emails – making them appear as though they've bounced back. I've hacked into your bank records and security –"

"That was _you?" _

She could practically see Sherlock rolling his eyes. "The point was to make sure it looked like Molly Hooper isn't a real person. Obviously that doesn't matter to him much, though. He's chasing a fantasy."

"So he's still after me?"

"Obviously."

Molly paused. "So what do I do?"

"I'll make it look as though your email server malfunctioned. Same with your bank account. I'll stop messing with it. You won't get the emails back – won't help you anyway, they're virtually untraceable, even I couldn't manage it. But, in the future, you'll get them. Maybe there will be a clue somewhere."

"I see." Molly muttered, mind trying to wrap itself around this, wondering why Sherlock was using the word _maybe. _She hadn't even thought that was in his vocabulary.

Sherlock paused, and then spoke again. "Oh, and about your hair."

"My _hair?" _Molly asked, utterly flabbergasted. She took a lock of her waist-long tresses and held it up to her eyes.

"It's too long - makes it too easy to grab you." Sherlock said evenly. "Cut it."

"Sherlock…" Molly whispered, voice bordering on needy. "Am I going to get hurt?"

"Doubtless."

Molly choked, and felt tears burning up in her eyes. "What?"

"Oh, don't expect me to hold your hand and let you cry on my shoulder. I think Lestrade's much better suited for that." He paused. "I can't get back to England. You're left to the police. Good luck. I'm sorry."

With that, without any kind of formal good-bye, Sherlock hung up. Molly sunk to the bleached floor, her legs unable to keep herself standing anymore.

She was only able to recover herself, as the door to the morgue shot open, with Stamford shuffling in.

"Hi," Molly managed to mutter, her voice cracking.

Stamford blinked through his glasses, his mouth drawn tightly into a frown. "Molly? What are you doing here?"

Molly paused. "Working?"

"You…"Stamford said, waddling towards her. "You don't work here anymore."

"What?" Molly took a step back. "Why would you say that?"

Stamford came towards her, holding her wrists delicately, as though he were afraid she would try to hit him. Then, delicately, he said, "You were given the sack last week."

"_What?" _Molly shook her head. "No, that can't be right."

"It's in your file," The portly older man said. "Because you…assisted Sherlock in acquiring human…parts."

Molly froze. She suspected Sherlock did this, somehow. But why would he get her fired for doing nice things for _him? _For turning the blind eye when he wanted to take eyeballs or thumbs for some god-forsaken experiment? He had said he made her disappear, took her off the record. Well, she was certainly on the record. On the record for something no other hospital would overlook—she was left without another career option.

"Stamford," She said, wrenching away from his meaty hands. "Are you sure?"

He nodded.

"But…they never told me." Had they just expected her to _know _and to stop showing up? Besides, what she had done was, technically, illegal. If Bart's suddenly knew about it, why hadn't anyone arrested her? "Can they do that?"

Stamford shifted his massive weight. "They must've told you before last week. You must've pushed the memory away. Go home, Molly, have a nice cuppa, and get someone to see you about these suppressed memories."

Molly, dumbstruck, bolted away from the morgue. The only place she'd ever worked. She was trained in that morgue, her internship had been there, and it had been her first real job. And now, it was gone. Just like that.

Another horrible thing to add to the list, she thought. Why had Sherlock done it? What was he trying to do? Molly crossed her arms tightly across her torso, halfway wishing Sherlock would call back and explain himself, and halfway wishing he would just disappear again, like he had for the first year.

Ten minutes after being informed she'd been sacked, Greg showed up at the front doors of Bart's.

"What's going on?" He asked, eyes filled with concern. "I got your text. You're about four hours early."

Molly nodded, pushing through the doors, intent to leave the hospital behind her. Once safely in the passenger seat of Greg's car, she muttered, "I got the sack."

"What?" He blinked. "Why?"

Holding her breath, Molly decided it was harmless enough to tell him. "Remember how Sherlock used to…experiment in his flat? He got…things from my morgue."

"I know," Greg muttered, backing out of the car park. "I think everyone did."

Molly quickly turned pink. "Oh."

Greg reached over to her shoulder. "It's not that bad. Everyone figured it harmless. Really."

"Well, apparently not. It got me the sack," Molly muttered again, inwardly blaming Sherlock.

Greg let his eyes linger off the road longer than normal. Then he said, "Dinner or dessert?"

"Sorry?"

"Which do you want," He clarified. "Dinner or dessert?"

Molly stammered. "I—wait _what?" _

"I think you could use some kind of treat right about now. Since I'm not seeing Abby anymore, I've got some leftover money I didn't think I'd have. So…" He faded. "Two birds and all that."

"Well," she spoke after a moment. "Ever since my cards went wonky I don't think I've had a real meal."

"Dinner it is, then," said Greg with a smile.

* * *

They stopped in a little café about five minutes out from Bart's. Warm yellow light spilled from overhead as they slipped into small booth hidden away in a corner, with their coffees in one hand and plates in another.

Greg watched with reserved amusement as Molly all but attacked her burger and chips.

She looked up and, using a napkin to cover her mouth, blushed. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Molly hunched her shoulders, and settled into the booth a bit lower.

Greg paused, remembering how his ex-wife used to always want to talk through her problems or feelings. He wasn't particularly verbal, but it wasn't even near the strangest thing about women, so it wasn't too difficult to lend a part in these conversations. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Molly said, dipping a chip in a small pool of ketchup.

"Oh." Greg sat back a bit. He really hadn't been expecting that.

They chewed silently on their burgers for a few minutes. Soft rock music playing over the speakers echoed lightly underneath the garbled conversations of others sitting in tables and booths around them.

"So," Molly said after a moment, "How was your day?"

Greg couldn't help but chuckle slightly at the normality of her tone. It certainly wasn't a normal situation, but she was behaving as though it was. Though, he supposed, stranger things happened.

"Fine," He said. "Nothing new on your case, though. Collin's searching the laptop for more encrypted things that might help, and trying to trace back any data."

Molly folded her arms together, and idea creeping into her brain. But how to word it? She didn't want to reveal Sherlock, but at the same time, she wanted life to return to normal. "Maybe…" She said slowly. "Maybe you could talk to the server. See what's in his email. Maybe there will be something there."

"But I thought you said you haven't gotten any." Greg narrowed his eyes.

"I did," Molly said, innocently as possible. "Maybe he's – uh – saved things or something."

Greg considered, and then nodded. "We'll check."

They resumed eating for a moment, until an offhanded comment from a busser sparked an hour-long conversation. If asked about it, however, Greg wouldn't be able to tell you what they were talking about. His responses came quickly enough, but he found himself concentrating on the way Molly smiled and pulled on her clothes rather than the actual conversation.

Things kept up in this fashion for the remainder of the evening, as they left the café with Styrofoam cups of takeaway cappuccino, as they filed back into his silver car. Before they knew where they were, they stood at the front door to Molly's flat.

"Thank you, Greg," Molly said, her voice quivering above a whisper. "For everything. It was lovely. You're lovely." Her eyes widened. "Oh, God. No. I meant…" With this, her face fell into a sharp realisation. "What I said."

Greg, in spite of himself, found himself smiling.

Molly, bright red, shook her head. "Sorry. I didn't mean…I'm gonna go inside now. Good night."

She turned to leave, and Greg had to fight the impulse to latch onto her wrist and pull her in, as he watched her disappear behind the mahogany doors.

He didn't see it, but concealed in a nearby alleyway, a camera clicked, brief flashing drowned out by cars scurrying about and passers-by carrying on with their evening. The owner of the camera looked at the digital preview of the photograph, eyes narrowing. A thousand threats per second filling his brain. Not to mention a thousand rather creative ways to be rid of Gregory Lestrade – the obstacle standing between him and the love of his life.


	9. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Greg knocked abruptly at Molly's door, shooting her the official text to let her know to open up. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. It was her third week of self-defence practices with John, and she was getting quite a bit better. He turned a bit to stare out the window, wondering what was taking her so long.

"Sorry I'm late." Molly's voice came accompanied by the familiar sound of a door latching behind her. "Ready to go, then?"

"Yeah I—" He turned and immediately found his jaw on the floor.

She looked so…so different. Her hair, which once fell all the way to her ribs, now stopped just above her shoulders, straight as a pin, framing her face. She was wearing athletic shorts and a rather form-fitting shirt, outlining the contours of her body a little _too _well. He couldn't tear his eyes away. She was absolutely beautiful. Not that she wasn't before, he corrected himself.

Molly frowned, swiping a hand through her hair. "Do you hate it?"

"No!" Greg said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I mean, no, it's fine."

"It feels funny, I'll admit—only got it cut, say, two days ago."

Greg nodded briskly. "Well, it suits you."

Molly smiled in spite of herself. "Well, then. Shall we go?"

Greg forced some sense into himself, nodding, and headed down the stairs, with Molly shortly behind him. They didn't speak again, until they were in the cab, heading towards Baker Street.

"Why the change?" Greg asked, after a few minutes of silence.

"Er, what?" Molly asked, then shook her head. "The hair, right. Well…a tip from a friend."

"Is that all you're going to give me?"

To this, Molly smiled and nodded. "Afraid so."

And, thus, the cab descended into silence all the way to Baker Street.

John already stood in the centre of the room when they arrived, staring at the Smiley, eyes brimming with regret and sadness. He noticed them in the mirror, and he instantly fixed himself, with the decorum of a former military officer.

"Right," He said quickly, perhaps afraid that Greg or Molly noticed him crying. "Let's start, then."

Greg fell into one of the sofas, propping his let up on the adjacent armchair, and Molly stood opposite John.

In moment, quick as a flash, John had Molly in the sleeper-hold yet again. Greg chewed on the inside of his lip, viewing the scene.

To, almost everyone's surprise, Molly quickly spun out of the grasp. John came tumbling to the ground. He sat there for a moment, blinking confusedly. Then he smiled, letting out a quick barking laugh.

"My God!" He laughed, "You did it!"

Then, he was back on his feet, quickly grabbing Molly's arm, with his clenched muscles showing through his thick jumper. She firmed her arm, and wrenched it backwards, causing John to lose grip.

It was almost like a dance comprised of punches and hits and misses. Greg was surprised with how well the two moved with one another. Especially considering the train-wreck Molly's fighting skills were in the weeks before. Yet, watching the spar that day, he found that she adapted quickly to self-defense.

Greg noted something more, however, watching the blow-by-blow from his little corner. The way Molly's eyes were fixed on John, the way her brow set, the slight spark betraying her normally sweet face. He found something strange roiling in his stomach. Some kind of protectiveness of the faces Molly shot at John – almost jealousy at the _attention. _And where did she get off being so _provocative_ anyhow?

He shook it off and continued watching. John swung and missed; Molly spun towards him, and he moved out of the way. They took the negative space the other one had previously occupied and filled in a new area.

They moved so quickly, it was difficult to narrate the specifics in his head, but Greg watched and found himself amazed.

Momentarily, Molly and John were both began to tire, the punches became less exact, and the wind up delayed with each passing blow.

"Conserve energy," John muttered more to himself than to Molly, moving around the back to attempt to jab her in the ribs.

Sliding out of the way, Molly twitched her brow and moved out of the way of the jab, pulling John in closer to her.

Molly's knee went up, going to the farthest side away from John, but getting height for a very critical hit his groin.

Seemingly very grateful for the missed hit, John sunk to the ground, swiping his leg over the ground, tripping Molly over the ground she stood on.

As he crawled over towards her, Molly clenched her fists together and used the double power to elbow him in the stomach. This time, however, the hit was very real. Then she stood up and wrapped one arm around John's throat and the other looping over his arm.

She panted she let go. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to hit you – not really."

John, still doubled over, shook his head. "No…no," he gasped. "At least we know that you really can…really can pack a punch."

Molly grinned, in spite of herself, and turned towards Greg. Instantly, her face grew serious. "Greg…are you all right?"

Greg was sitting there with his jaw agape. Again. Not only was realising that Molly could stand a chance in defending herself, reassuring, but actually watching it turned out to be a bit…sexy. Not that he'd ever admit that aloud.

The way she was out of breath, the way her newly cut hair was messed up, the flushed look on her face as she smiled, chest heaving and…

_Fuck it, Greg. You don't fancy her. _

"Yeah," He managed to stammer. "Absolutely bloody fine."

* * *

Greg walked her all the way back to her door. He waited for her to open the door for what felt like hours.

"All right," Molly sighed. "I suppose…I'll see you tomorrow."

Greg nodded, turned to go, then shuffled slightly, turning back. "Oh, and Molly…I…it's good to see you doing so well."

"It's good to see me doing so well." Molly smiled weakly, realising the joke would fall flat even before she said it. "Thank you for taking me."

Greg shrugged. "Well, it was John's idea."

Molly nodded. "Then tell him I say thanks."

Greg nodded again, slowly, still planted firmly by the doorstep. "Well…er…"

"Yeah," Molly said, taking his lead of staying still.

Greg exhaled loudly, suddenly aware of his watch ticking. "I should probably go."

_Please, don't, _She couldn't help but think. Instead, aloud, she just nodded. "All right."

He started to descend on the stairs, but then turned around again. "Molly…"

"Yeah?"

His eyes scanned her over briefly, and then he shook his head solemnly. "Never mind."

With this, he turned about and trotted down the stairs.

With the door shutting behind her, Molly couldn't take her mind off it. Her chest was on fire when she saw his eyes slide up and down on her. She couldn't remember the last time somebody looked at her like that – it might have been the first time.

She briefly considered asking him to coffee, but decided otherwise. Now that he was gone, she couldn't help but criticise herself for it. If she waited, she never knew when the next chance she'd have. It might come at a less opportune moment, things turned messy rather quickly, after wall.

Molly caught her thought, and almost immediately began to laugh. If this was an opportune moment, she didn't know what a messy time would be. Somehow, she had forgotten about exactly how messy her life was. Constant police watch. The invisible stalker who, apparently, followed her like a ghost. She hardly believed it was all happening, or that she had, even for a moment, forgotten about it.

She laid back in her big chair, pulling Toby onto her lap, sighing. The cat rolled over onto his stomach, paws ready to play his favourite game with her hair.

Then, the feline's eyes filled with surprise and disgust, as though asking how _dare _she remove his favourite plaything?

Toby then squirmed out of her arms and bolted into a different room.

Molly shook her head, tucking her knees into her chest. As much as she tried, she couldn't remove the image of Greg's face from her brain, or the way it sent her heart fluttering.

Shockingly, she almost felt sixteen again. It felt so similar to the first infatuation that sends your whole world spinning, as though someone hit you in the head, as though just looking at them send your heart pounding and it _hurt. _

She bit the side of her lip when, mid-thought, her laptop sent out the email alert through the flat.

Molly, still so wrapped up in her thoughts, didn't think to be afraid until she opened the inbox.

There it was, a single, anonymous email waiting for her.

Then, reality came crashing in. She remembered everything in that moment: the stalker, the weight of the situation, and the possibility of murder. Her murder.

On a shaking breath with quivering hands, Molly moved the track pad over to the email. Exhaling slowly, she opened it.

_Molly, dear, _it said. _I've been trying to get these to you for months, but it hasn't gone through. Don't worry though, love, I'm not giving up! _

Her eyes began to burn and she blinked, heart pounding outside her chest in a very uncomfortable way, as she continued to read.

_You cut your hair, I noticed. Pity – I liked it long. Remember that time we sat together all night and I brushed my hand through your hair two hundred and seventy-four times? You wore your pink-polka-dotted pyjamas. _

With the world circling around her, Molly felt her stomach contract and lurch upwards.

Pulling herself together, she sat back down before her laptop, not sure why she decided to continue torturing herself.

_No matter, though about your hair. It'll grow out again. Might take a few years, but we'll be together forever so what does that matter? Let it start growing again. You should've asked me first – get my input. That's how relationships work, Kitten. _

_I know we haven't spoken in a while – but that's not my fault. For a while I thought you gave me a faulty email – that really pissed me off. But hopefully it'll go through now. Because we need to talk about something. Is someone hurting you? You're always with the police. Protection? Come to me, Kitten, I can protect you. _

_And for that matter, why are you always with that Detective Inspector? Don't worry – I trust you – I've dated enough whores to know one when I see one. You're only half one. I've seen the way he looks at you – it's sick. Don't worry though, I'll keep you safe from him. _

_You're safe with me. _

_Oh – and by the way, Kitten. I've got a good one. Open the attachment and see. :] _

Her fingers shaking on the track pad, Molly weakly moved the pointer over the attachment, and instantly shot back. She couldn't stop shaking for the life of her. She looked behind her, the paranoia stronger than ever, her stomach continued squirm and writhe. Her hand clapped up over her mouth immediately as she heaved, running to the nearest bin, filling it with sick. She shook her head, moaning, "No…no…no," over and over again.

How could this happen? What had she done to cause it? Her mind swarmed, trying to think of a time she could have led someone on. A time she held eye contact with someone in a line too long. A time she'd accidentally flirted with a stranger. She searched her memory for a time she'd dressed provocatively. Anything to explain why this was happening to her.

Nothing came to mind, and she cringed. She had to have done something to encourage the lunatic.

Somehow, she just knew that this was all her fault.

She was horrible at fixing things once she fucked them up, but at least she ought to try.

Whipping her mobile out of her pocket, she quickly dialled Greg's number with surprising dexterity.

"Lestrade." His voice came out over the other end, completely professional. She heard London bustling around him, apparently still in the car.

"It's Molly," She said weakly.

"Molly," Greg's voice changed completely in that instant. "What's wrong?"

Molly was already on her feet, in her bedroom, filling a carpet bag with clothes. "Greg…just get me out of here."

"Be there in two minutes," He said quickly, and she heard wheels screeching and car horns blaring in protest.

Upon pressing "End Call," Molly felt her knees weaken again, and she sunk onto her bedspread. The door to the room was still open, and she could still make out the image on the laptop.

The image of herself, with her hair cut short, sleeping soundly, without a clue.


	10. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

They drove silently for hours in Greg's little silver car.

When he first came to her flat to take her, he hadn't bothered to knock, and simply kicked the door open. Molly nearly had a seizure from the shock. Unfortunately, he was too concerned about her to really care about that.

"You all right?" He asked, feeling as though he found his heart haemorrhaging.

Molly stared at him, eyes wide, as she shook her head. "No, not really."

"What happened?"

Picking up her overnight pack and stuffing her laptop into it, grimacing as she did so, she pulled it over her shoulder. "Just get me out of here."

He had nodded, offered to carry her overnight pack, and led her out to his car.

Pulling away from the curb and back onto the proper side of the road, he asked, "All right then, where are we going?"

Molly shook her head, clipping the seat belt, and pulling her shoes off. "Don't know. Please – just away from here. Away from London."

Slightly shocked, he agreed. Since then, silence fell over them as though a toxic fog settled between them.

Occasionally, Greg looked at her through his peripheral. She looked so tiny, so fragile. Her skin sallow and faded out, she looked as though she was made of porcelain. But then, she would shake occasionally, and hug her knees into her chest in the passenger's seat, gazing out the window without really seeing anything.

Whenever they stopped or merged into a new road, however, her behaviour seemed to turn around entirely. Then she looked all about the car, as though trying to make something familiar from it all. She looked panicked, alarmed, and frightened every time the car slowed. Squinting at license plate numbers, trying to make out the people, looking over her shoulder, as though someone waited there with a knife.

When it moved quickly, however, she returned to looking hazy and fogged over.

Greg, while he wasn't sure what just happened, had a few ideas. Possibly she saw someone who likely was her stalker – maybe the man came forward and announced himself. Maybe there was a break-in and she couldn't handle it. Maybe she'd been confronted on the street. Maybe she'd just had a bloody awful nightmare that _seemed _real. However, it wouldn't do him any good to muddle through the possibilities when he very well knew she'd tell him sooner or later.

Thus, they drove. The only sounds being the vibrating and shaking of the silver car and the blaring of the heater blowing at both of their faces.

He turned towards Trafalgar Square, which seemed to undergo a complete transformation in the transition between day and night. In the day, it was filled with tourists wanting to see the fountain and all the architecture and people bustling to work. Now, as it was early evening, there were maybe half the people in the Square as usual, and none of them stopped to see the fountain gushing in the centre, or to view the statues or buildings. They were all going on with their lives. People did that, go on with their lives, whether or not your own life recently faced yet another tragedy.

They turned down a second road, driving along a row of local shoppes and restaurants, passing by in a blur under the hazy evening. This road was more full than the Square had been. People going on, stepping into shoppes, going out to dinner. Laughing , drinking, telling stories.

That road turned into another, a residential street full of flat complexes and individual houses. Practically dead. Lights were on in some of the buildings. From his peripheral, Greg could make out a family sitting on the sofa, watching the telly happily as the parents sipped a nightcap.

The homeless meandered down these streets, meeting up in the alleyways between flat complexes, sharing tattered quilts and boxed wine. He thought he saw one removing a trench coat from his own back and giving it to a much smaller, frail person. Funny – how those who had nothing seemed most willing to give.

By the time they turned a third time, they were back on a main road. Shoppes and theatres and libraries and banks stood tall against the setting sun, demanding worship for their architectural and economic glory. Cars swerved, darting through lanes. Taxicabs pulled over to assist the lonely or tired or drunk. And people walked on.

Greg made a fairly abrupt turn, almost cutting a bloke off in the other lane, who promptly decided to give him the finger.

Busy London streets were soon replaced by a mass of cars and trucks on the thruway. The sunset blurred the sky, sending a pink tint onto the rest of the vehicles. Greg drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, remembering to have enough tact not to mention how pretty it looked. She didn't look as though she was in the mood for conversation.

By the time he pulled onto M40, the sky was completely black. Street lamps overhead and headlights proved to be the only light source in their line of vision. No moon and no stars decided to grace their presence. And they drove on.

Hours passed, driving up the thruway. They stopped twice. Once to give a toll and once to get gas. Whilst at the station, Molly seemed rendered into a sudden panic. At least, to anyone who knew her at all well. To the passer-by, she might've simply looked bored and anxious to get to the destination. Her eyes, were alight, flickering around, pseudo-calmly, for a familiar car or face she did not want to see. She looked as though she desperately needed a shock-blanket.

Greg returned to the vehicle, after filling it with gas, with a bottle of creamy fizzy drink to calm her nerves, a single-serving bag of crisps, and a small packet of biscuits.

Then, he spoke again. "We'll be another two hours at least."

Molly simply nodded, murmured her thanks, and cracked the fizzy drink open.

The silence settled heavily on Greg's chest, as though something sat atop of it. But, he went on driving on the thruway, watching exit signs and scenery pass in a hazy blur.

He really didn't even know where he was taking them. The plan was to go until Molly looked calmer, or until he grew too tired to drive safely.

The former was not getting better, but the latter was beginning to approach faster than he'd like.

He didn't know how to feel. Molly was obviously fragile, disturbed, or hurt. Or all three. It wasn't a pleasant sight. Actually, it was a bloody awful sight. He didn't like to see her so off. She was normally so kind, sweet, and happy – happy in spite of what she saw all day. He used to think that nothing short of Armageddon would shake her. Either he was wrong or the End of Time was upon them.

England continued to whisk by as they drove onwards. Onwards, without any substantial end in sight. The night grew deeper, the traffic became lighter, until they were one of only a small handful of cars on the thruway.

It wasn't until they passed an exit for Warrington that Molly spoke.

"How long have we been driving?"

Greg shrugged, leaning his elbow against the far window. "About three hours."

Molly blinked, looking at the clock. Surely enough: it was one.

Allowing his eyes to leave the road for a bit, he gave Molly a quick once-over. She looked beaten, tired, drugged. With dark bags under her eyes, she appeared liable to fall asleep that instant, but out of fear, would not allow herself the pleasure.

"If you want," he asked. "We can stop in Liverpool for the night. Get a room. And then go on in the morning."

Molly nodded and resumed staring out the window.

For the next hour, they continued to drive. Cars passed them, they passed cars, in a seemingly eternal game of leap-frog. A streetlight went out from above them at one point, causing Molly to jump. A car cut them off from another lane, speeding ahead – obviously with a very important agenda at two in the morning.

Finally, after what seemed like years, Greg pulled off the exit towards Liverpool. They remained silent as they entered the city.

Greg weighed his luck. It was a bit after two. Most hotels wouldn't let them in at early hours. If he found one over an all-nighter, he might find some luck.

It took some driving, but eventually he pulled up to a little inn with all the lights on.

Soon, they had a small and cheap room for the night. Greg grabbed a blanket from the front desk, and made a small sleeping space at the foot of the large double bed Molly settled into.

After they settled in, bolted the door, and drew the curtains tightly, Greg turned on his side on the blanket.

"So, Molly," He said slowly. "You fancy you could tell me what happened?"

Molly pressed her lips together, but nodded slowly. Instead of talking, however, she reached into her sack and pulled out her laptop. They waited for the machine to power on, and for her to open a few files. Then she turned it and handed it to Greg, pulling her legs back up onto the mattress, hugging her knees.

She watched his expression go from confusion to fear to rage in seconds.

"_Christ." _He muttered.

"It…it was the first one." Molly said, resting her chin on her knee.

"Well…" Greg shook his head, at an apparent loss of words. "_Fuck_."

Molly blinked away the burning in her eyes, but then, it just exploded. "He was in my flat! Less than two days ago! I never…I didn't know a thing! My flat, my home. How did he even get in? I didn't ring anybody in. The police were watching! How, then, did he get _in my flat?" _

She suddenly began to pace frantically. "He could've been coming in ever since this…ever since it started. I never noticed anything wrong…there was never anything…strange. The door and windows were all bolted. I don't understand! But he got in! He got in and – God – I have no idea how he's been doing it or what he's been doing while he's been in there."

Greg stared at her, dumbstruck. That was the most he'd ever heard her talk. It was a shame that it was so panicked, since she had such a nice voice.

He shook his head. There were no easy answers. No words of comfort. He just had to think for a minute.

Sitting there, on the floor, he watched her double over trying to compose herself. She shook her head, shorter hair swaying in rhythm, holding her stomach. Her eyes were shut tight, as though if she only shut them hard enough, she could make it all go away.

After a minute or so, she did return her breathing to normal, and swallowed slowly.

"All right," She said. "What now?"

Greg shifted his eyes from the laptop to Molly. "Well," he said slowly. "From just a professional case-centric standpoint, in the morning, we need to let my team at the Yard know, look at previous emails of the other vict—_girls_, and figure out who he is before—"

"Before he kills me?"

"I was going to say before he gets more obsessive, but…yeah." He shook his head, slowing his own breathing. "But, from a personal standpoint? We have to shake him. Get you away from this bastard."

Molly agreed. They sat in silence for a while longer, until Molly suddenly let out a lonely, hollow laugh.

"Is it completely mental that I'm knackered?"

"Not at all," Greg said serenely. "Shock, you know? Have a lie down, get some sleep, and we'll contact the Yard in the morning."


	11. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

By the time Molly woke up, Greg was already on video-chat with Donovan and a young ginger man she recognised but couldn't place in her groggy, half-asleep stupor.

"All right," said the unknown ginger agent through the computer screen. "I'm in her email."

Greg nodded, eyes sliding to the portion of the window not covered by his colleagues' faces. "So, wait, what's going on here?"

"That's the wifi connection going wanky. That happens when it's being hacked sometimes." The agent said, seeming irritated. "Don't _touch _it."

"No, this other thing."

"That'd be her _screen saver." _

"Well, why is it _doing _that?"

The ginger sighed. "Probably because you haven't touched it in a while on your end. The hack makes it hard for you to see what I'm doing. Keeps your LCD panel live as though I wasn't messing around in her RAM."

"My _what_?" He paused. "_Her _what?"

"Is this really that important?" Donovan shouted from her end. "Can't we focus on, you know, the case?"

"No, you're right," Greg said, swiping a hand through his hair. "Sally, then, you'll stop by Molly's flat?"

Donovan nodded. "We'll do a DNA sweep as best we can. Look for fingerprints, hairs, and things like that. Extra surveillance in case he comes back."

Greg nodded.

Then, the ginger agent snapped his head upwards. "Hey, I think I've got something."

Greg instantly enlarged the ginger agent's window. "What?"

"Her machine's been hacked – a lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot." The agent said, a fascinated smirk playing on his lips. "Looks like…_two _sources. Someone made it look like everything was fine – so she'd continue to use it while getting into her Macro, having a GIGO, and basically fucking up her entire system. And then the wanker encrypted everything. I can't find any software that'll work. But the signs are obvious enough." His head shot up. "Oh, sorry sir. Encrypting is when—"

"I know what it means."

The ginger agent blinked. "Are you sure? With all due respect, sir, my Nan knows more about computers than you do."

Normally, Greg might've asked what a Macro or a GIGO was, but the young man's attitude was beginning to strike a chord, and he hardly fancied giving him the satisfaction.

"Can you trace it?" He asked.

With confidence bordering on cockiness, the young man nodded. "Might take a while. He used precautions."

From where she was sitting, unseen, on the bedspread, Molly froze. would lead them straight to him.

The next moment she shook her head. Of course it wouldn't. This was Sherlock she was thinking of. They wouldn't be able to trace it to him unless he wanted it traced to him.

She must have unwittingly made a noise, for Greg's head snapped up and looked at her. He smiled. "Morning."

Molly tried to regain control over her breathing, which had suddenly begun to feel difficult. She smiled, and said as cheerfully as possible, "Morning."

Greg turned back to the laptop. "The email, Collin," he said to the ginger. "Can you trace the email?"

"Already did." He said. "London Library, public computer. Signed in anonymously."

"Damn it." Greg shook his head.

Donovan coughed slightly. "All right, now that we know what we're doing here in London – what are _you _going to do?"

"Try and keep her safe."

"That's not in your job description."

Greg gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "It is now."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Look, I'll keep connected with you, and look through things from afar. Do it over the Internet."

"Good luck with that," Collin, the ginger, smirked. Then, he caught himself, and added in a rather late "Sir."

"Quiet, you." Greg muttered, a small smile betraying his words.

"Remember what I said earlier?" Donovan said. "About Hooper?"

"Yeah." Greg grumbled, recalling that particular conversation – even the suggestion to use Molly as bait…it still infuriated him.

"Well, just be careful," Donovan shook her head. "If he's following her as closely as it seems, he's probably still following her to wherever you lot are."

Greg sighed, and after brief good-byes, shut the laptop closed, looking at Molly, still sitting up in bed, her shorter hair frizzed and mussed up from a night of tossing and turning.

"Conference?" She asked in her most cheerful voice.

He nodded. "How long were you awake?"

"They're going to look in my flat for DNA." Molly shrugged, and then let a small grin set on her lips. "And Collin's Nan is better with computers than you, apparently."

Greg shook his head, letting a short laugh permeate through the room. "Oh, come on, I don't think I'm that bad."

She raised her brows jokingly. "My screen saver? You couldn't've guessed?"

"Hey!" He said, "I am thirteen years older than you. I hardly grew up with technology."

"Neither did his Nan." Molly said, still smiling.

The two began to laugh together, shoulders quivering, the sounds echoing through the tiny space. It was a small moment of happiness, washing over them, jolting them both with some sort of newfound and nameless energy.

Once they quieted, Greg stood. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better." Molly nodded. "Almost safe."

"Almost?" His eyebrows drew close.

Molly looked into her hands, struggling to articulate. "I know it's silly but…I didn't really feel in danger before. Not really, at any rate. I hadn't experienced anything except for what the police said. I was getting paranoid, but…it wasn't real…_fear_, you know?"

Greg shrugged, not really understanding.

"He never made contact, before that. At least, none that I know of." Molly said, remembering Sherlock's words, _You wouldn't know if he came up and talked to you in the street—he probably has…_ and almost shuddered. "So it was…it didn't seem quite real. And then…" She faded.

"He shoved it in your face."

She stared at him, eyes shimmering. Then, with a sigh, her head bobbed up. "Yeah."

They looked at each other. Molly felt his eyes penetrating through her. Dark eyes burning a hole through her brain. She couldn't tell what he was thinking – she couldn't even tell what emotion (if any) was behind it. The picture of his face just then burned through her skull.

A moment passed.

"Well, we should probably go soon. I made a few calls this morning – and we've actually got a destination now. Carlisle. I can get into better contact with the Yard once we're there – connections and whatnot." Greg said, shaking his head and beginning to pack up the sheets he had slept on.

Thus, they quickly packed up and found themselves back in Greg's car, beginning the nearly three hour drive to Carlisle from Liverpool.

The demeanour of this drive proved very different from the first one. While the day before Molly had been panicked, stoic, silent and frantic simultaneously, she seemed to negate all of those behaviours the further north they drove.

She sat up straight, feet resting on the floor, rather than being folded up and closed off. She stared out the window, quite a bit more engaged as the thruway hurtled around them.

The ride, however, remained quiet for the largest extent.

By the time they got to Preston, they were ready for a break. Greg stopped in a secondhand store car park.

"Feeling up to a quick shopping trip?" He asked.

Molly wrinkled her brow. "Sorry?"

Greg unbuckled the belt over his seat. "I figure I might need a change of clothes, pyjamas. A toothbrush'd be nice, too, and some food."

"Oh, right," Molly shook her head. "Food's important, isn't it?"

Greg smiled. "Yeah. And, I think it'd be good for us to get out and stretch our legs."

He looked about in bins at the secondhand store, throwing a pair of denim jeans two thinning oxford shirts, a couple of pairs of boxers into a basket haphazardly.

Molly walked warily by his side, still paranoid, looking over her shoulder, and jumping at any small noise.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to admit it, but it felt nice to have him walking next to her. It was assurance that everything had potential to be all right again. It reminded her of how lovely it was, the year before, when they would go out, have dinner or drinks. Unfortunately, this also reminded her of how it all fell apart.

Then they wandered about Preston until they reached a little village shop. Wandering in, they found pre-made cheese sandwiches, a packet of nuts, crisps, and a few bottles of water. After a few minutes of digging, Greg also managed to find a toothbrush, hiding away behind some corny local band's CD. They paid and made it back to the vehicle without any major repercussions.

Molly allowed herself to breath a sigh of relief as they entered the thruway once more, headed dead north, towards Carlisle.

An hour passed, and they munched on the cheese sandwiches. Greg used his right elbow to lean his head against his fist.

After about an hour, Molly spoke. "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"D'you think…well, what I mean to ask…do you think we could talk now?"

Greg racked his brain, but came up short. "What about?"

"Whatever it's been going on between us?"

"Oh." He said. "Yeah, sure. What about it?"

"Well, I…" Molly began, but then abruptly stopped. She knew she wanted to talk about it – she had for a while. But, now that the perfect opportunity to do so arose, she found herself at a loss of words. Not that she was ever extremely articulate, but she seemed to hit a metaphorical wall just then.

She stopped, unsure of what message she wanted to convey. She knew she liked his friendship. It was so comforting to have a friend she could talk to so easily without worry of judgment. She'd enjoy the conversation, his smile, the happy feeling in her chest when she would close the door behind her, and childishly watch him leave from her window.

"I kind of expected something…" Molly muttered, heart beating in her ears. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I…I liked it. When we'd spend all this time together. It was nice."

Mulling over what she was saying in his head, Greg found himself at a dead end. It was nice, he agreed silently. He liked it a great deal too. But, obviously, it hadn't worked very well. Apparently he couldn't keep his hands to himself while hammered – and that was a failure. He was, honestly, surprised that Molly attached to a different memory. Any other girl might've attached to the memory of the drunken night and forgotten completely about the months before. But, then again, Molly wasn't any other girl.

"And I…" Molly inhaled slowly, bracing herself. Then, she spoke quickly, running her words together. "I reckon I'm beginning to fancy you a bit."

"Molly, I – "

"No. No, it's fine." Molly said, shaking her head, turning bright red. "Never mind. I shouldn't've said anything. Everything's really complicated. I just made it worse, didn't I? So, never mind." She inhaled sharply. "Thank you, Greg. For doing all this for me. I shouldn't have…well, it means a lot that you did all this for me. So…thanks. Oh, _God. _I'll just shut up now."

Greg sat in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel a bit too hard. He wasn't sure what to think.

He allowed his eyes to slip to the corner, watching Molly – her face completely flushed, covering her cheeks with a hand, pulling her knees back into her chest.

Unable to look at her much longer, Greg thought about the image as it broiled in his mind. She was blushing, her eyes darted around the vehicle, incredibly embarrassed. He didn't really think she had much to be embarrassed about.

He thought about what she said. The way his own heart began to tremor when she confessed she had started to fancy him. The vibration of the vehicle was overwhelming. Too much for him, shaking his focus as it literally shook him.

He'd spent months and months repeating the opposite to himself. But, then again, lying to oneself rarely worked.

_Well, fuck, Greg. You fancy her. _

But everything was too difficult.

Actually, it was bloody dangerous. He'd read the email. The threat had been articulately written on the screen.

Then again, that wouldn't come to anything. He'd die before someone laid a finger on Molly – and he'd never let anyone call her a whore.

But, his feelings were so unethical. Molly was a woman who was being stalked by a serial murderer. He was supposed to be investigating and putting the bastard away. Putting him behind bars would certainly help her more than taking extra hours to stop and stare at her, and definitely more help than locking himself into the bathroom for a session of deep thinking.

It really wasn't the best time for these things to come up. It shouldn't be that abnormal, however, women _always _chose the worst times to bring things up. Although, he thought, staring as the cars whizzing by. Molly was probably very frightened – she might even be under the impression that she was going to die soon. It made sense she wanted closure on everything.

On the other hand, he didn't really need closure. He needed her to be safe. He knew he'd do anything to keep her that way. Still, she was being so terribly distracting, just carrying on like that, telling him what she was feeling.

Why did girls have to do that, anyway? Bring up their feelings all the time. Why couldn't they mull them over silently and then act on it. It worked wonderfully for him – always had.

Finally, they pulled into a long driveway, with a dark labelled sign out from _Willow Lodge and Cabins. _

"Oh, wow," Molly uttered, looking out the windows when Greg halted the car.

The building was enormous, four sets of long triangles peaking out from the grass. Windowed all over the front. The lawn was groomed to perfection over a small lake lying in front of them. The trees lit up as though it was Christmas, giving a rather exclusive feel to the whole.

"Yeah, well," Greg shrugged. "It's not exactly inconspicuous, I reckon. But they've got decent security. And privacy."

Pulling into a surprisingly empty car park, they unloaded and began the trek up to the front doors. Molly blinked around herself, almost forgetting why she was there. She'd never been any place quite so lovely. Her family always had troubles with money, so holidays – particularly in places like that, were completely out of the question when she was younger. And morgue attendants did not make that sort of money either.

They entered the front lobby of the great building. Elegant stuffed armchairs surrounded an elaborate glowing fireplace. The ceiling peaked far up high, almost four floors. Mahogany floors reflected the chandelier overhead.

Molly felt odd – out of place, and overwhelmingly confused as to what exactly they were doing there.

Greg walked up to the front desk. In a single move, he pulled his I.D card out of his breast pocket. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

The heavily made-up woman behind the counter cocked a pencilled-in brow. "Scotland Yard? Bit far away from home, ain't you?"

"Mm." Greg said quickly. "I need a cabin for an investigation."

"Mind if I check your I.D, Inspector?" The woman said. "Just to make sure everything checks out?"

"Go ahead." He said, turning over his card to the woman. He leaned against the counter, putting a mint from the display bowl into his mouth. Noting Molly's quizzical look, he said, "What?"

She gestured around the elegant front office. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"I'll explain later."

Once his card checked out, and they were given a key to a little cabin on the adjacent side of the lake. Driving over, he did explain.

"All right. Collin's family owns the place. The cabins have great security he can enable with the computers very easily. And it's far enough away that I think…" he paused. "I really don't think he's followed us."

The words settled nicely in Molly's ears. And for a moment it calmed her to think that he didn't. That he'd just give up. That she could return to London without having to worry, that she could return to Bart's and life would go on the way it had.

"Here we are," He said, pulling into another driveway after fifteen minutes of scenic lakeside road.

Looking up, Molly again found herself gasping at the sight of the cabin. Built like a triangle, out of large logs laid one over another. Large windows bordered the front, but reassuringly lessened towards the back of the building. The logs were bright, waxed and cut to perfection.

Inside was even more beautiful. A long suede sofa curved to the side, surrounding a waxed mahogany tea-table with a little bowl of mints and a box of tissues. A large telly hung above an electronic fireplace roaring happily, filling the room with orange light. Opposite that, a large wall of windows loomed high overhead, making Molly feel exposed until Greg pulled the curtains shut.

There was a little alcove with bookshelves full of popular DVDs and classic novels. Built into the shelves was a little desk equipped with an IBM and a web cam.

On the other end of the cabin, there was a little kitchen with an island dividing it from the sitting room. Next to that, the dining room elegantly waited for the next mealtime.

The washroom sat upstairs, and had a large glass shower, mirrors along the whole far wall, and a small window in the corner.

There was only one bedroom in the cabin, next door to the washroom, with thick wood walls and a large memory foam mattress covered in blankets and quilts.

"I'll have to borrow some of those," Greg remarked as they looked about. "For when I crash on the sofa tonight."

Molly jumped in the next moment at a sudden vibration in her pocket. She pulled out her mobile and faltered instantly, heart pounding.

All ease from earlier in the day melted away in an instant as she read the words on the screen. **BLOCKED CALLER. **

Greg looked over at the vibrating gadget in her hand. "Put it on speaker."

"Are you sure?" Molly asked, reluctant. What if it was Sherlock again?

"Molly. Put it on speaker."

She followed the command. She waited a moment before whispering, in a mousy voice. "Hullo?"

From the other end: "Oh, you're all right. Thank _God. _I was worried about you, Kitten."

Molly fell to the ground and Greg was kneeling beside her in an instant, one concerned hand on her shoulder.

He made eye contact with her, and slowly mouthed. "Stay. Calm."

Molly nodded, obviously not calm, as the voice on the other end continued.

"You disappeared. I got worried. But, you're all right, Kitten? Don't worry. I'll come and get you."

Molly's breathing quickened.

The voice continued, "It was a long-shot, I know, that they'd let you have your mobile. But I guess that just shows what a stupid pathetic tosser he is. Who lets a person keep their phone in a kidnapping? I'd be much more thorough. But, I guess that isn't a surprise." He laughed.

She remained silent.

"Well, anyhow. Tell me where you are, and I'll take you back home. I'll keep you safe, you won't have to worry anymore."

Greg scribbled a note on a napkin that had been in his pocket and put it in Molly's other hand.

_Tell him to call tomorrow. _

Molly began to speak, but found her voice lost. Coughing once or twice, she made it come back. "Call me tomorrow. Busy right now. You know how it is. Okay, all right. Bye."

With this, she pressed _End Call _and fell back against the wall. She wasn't crying. It took something to cry. She couldn't feel anything. She was a shell – no substance. Just everything sucked out of her. Life seemed like a distant memory, and she was only just there – body, no soul attached.

Once Greg helped Molly move back to the sitting room, putting her on the sofa with a heavy blanket around her shoulders, he immediately pulled out his own mobile.

Molly watched as he dialled the numbers with his thumbs and put the phone up to his ear, looking tired all the while.

"Sally? It's Greg." He said quickly. "We've got an issue."

He paused. "He called her." Another pause. "No, he didn't call Paxton or Birdie, that I know of…We can hook up the mobile to a computer, can't we? Collin can trace it…Yeah. Why?" During the next pause his eyes slid over to Molly, giving her a quick once over. "She's bloody catatonic…well, no: if she couldn't handle talking to him _now…_no! I told you – we're not making her live bait. Especially not while we're so far away from London." He sighed. "Yes, I realise it wasn't the smartest decision. No, I don't know what came over me…It's late. He doesn't know where she is right now, so I think we'll be all right. Conference first thing tomorrow morning…All right. G'bye."

Hanging up abruptly, he slowly rubbed his temples, shutting his eyes. Molly had a subtle urge to reach out and touch his shoulder, but abstained. She couldn't feel her arms, much less lift them.

Then, without warning, it came over her. Crashing like thunder in her ears, pulsing through her body like lighting. Everything went from being unseen, unheard and ghostly, to suddenly very real and tangible. His voice – she shuddered – it sounded like snakes coiling in her brain. She couldn't stop hearing him. _Are you all right, Kitten?_ _I'll come and get you. _She was surprised to find her cheeks streaked with tears.

She suddenly felt a hand over hers. Greg was leaning forward next to her, his expression utterly sober, lacing his fingers with hers.

Looking at him, she exhaled on shaky breath. Looking away, she thought aloud, "I wish…I wish I wasn't afraid. But I am."

"Hey," he said, his voice gravely and soft, his hold of her hand firming. "I'm right here, yeah? We'll get it sorted."

Pulling a tissue from the box sitting opposite them, Molly dried her face, and then smiled emptily. "Has anyone ever told you how amazing you are, Greg?"

"Oh sure. All the time," he said, leaning back onto the sofa with a slight grin.

"They probably should," Molly muttered. "I actually feel safe right now."

They stared at each other, one set of dark eyes burn into the other. The day seemed so long, the car ride up to Carlisle seemed ages ago. But, in that moment, it all came back at the forefront of his mind.

As for Molly, she couldn't shake the fear – or the realisation that that might not be the only reason her heart was racing – Greg was a bulwark for her. A kind, handsome, and incredible man of a bulwark. When she was with him, she was in the eye of the storm – he calmed the waters.

Greg looked back at her unblinkingly. His mind wandered. It was wrong, he knew it. She was disturbed and afraid – doing anything would be taking unfair advantage. And, either way, he couldn't afford to be distracted – even if she was the distraction. She was probably too overwhelmed with the issue at hand. There was another reason that his mind shouldn't have wandered where it did – She had a madman after her, that ought to be the only focus. Not how she looked under the lamplight.

They both had a bigger picture to focus on. He was in charge of the murder investigations of the two other girls who were followed by the same man. There wouldn't be a third. He would make certain of it. Which was why he didn't have _time _for this. But – and the realisation shook him – it seemed as though he was about to make time for it, with or without his conscious consent.

It all happened so quickly. Neither of them could be certain of who moved first, but in the next moment, their mouths came together. She was sweet and soft like candy floss, as she pushed gently against his lips.

Molly was in a haze. She felt drunk – the world moved slower, her heart pounded in her ears, hands, and every other part of her body imaginable.

He lifted his hand to touch the back of her neck – it was warm to the touch, soft, and felt like it belonged there.

Slowly, Greg pulled away. Their eyes came open together, and once a comfortable distance away, they smiled, light all but shining from their faces.

Greg coughed. "Think you'll be able to sleep tonight?"

"No." Molly shook her head, too awake from fright and too excited from him to even think about lying down.

"Well, let's see what they've got on Netflix."


	12. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

In spite of what happened the previous night, not much changed between them. Perhaps the pressing situation allowed them to momentarily overlook it. Perhaps it had been the conversation they'd have whilst watching the telly later that night. Perhaps it was just the fact that – for once – they were being adults about this sort of thing.

No matter what it was, things were still normal – as far as normal went. Molly remained skittish, Greg tried to keep her calm, and they continued trying to figure it out until they thought their brains might explode, when they'd do something to distract themselves and rest their minds.

Although it had taken Greg an hour to connect Molly's mobile to the computer, and although Collin sat on watch for the connection for hours, the stalker didn't call that next day.

This set Molly into a frenzy, pacing about the cabin for hours, ringing her hands together, and jumping at every last noise.

"You know," Greg said after several hours of watching Molly walk from one side of the room to another like a cat chasing a ball of yarn, "I'd think you'd be a bit more…relaxed without him calling you."

"You'd think," She muttered, her voice higher than normal. "I'd think. We'd all think."

With this, she collapsed next to him on the sofa. "Oh, I'm going insane."

"No, you're not." He said, hating watching her in such a passion. "You're afraid."

She gave him a rather uncharacteristically sceptical once-over. "Are you just trying to make me feel better?"

"Is it working?"

Pressing her lips together, she thought this through. Then, for the first time in that day, she smiled. "Yeah."

The next day, the stalker didn't call again. And, still, the day after that, the mobile did not ring. It bothered Molly a bit less, then. She still muttered to herself, but she managed to eat and play a few rounds of Solitaire while Greg had meetings with his team via the web-cam. She'd look over her shoulder at him occasionally. The serious, stoic look etched into his features; the set of his jaw; the raw concentration in his eyes.

She liked looking at him. She liked talking with him. She knew all this, but wasn't exactly sure how to go about it. The situation was rather _complex, _after all. He'd voiced it the other night, Molly remembered, while watching a film on Netflix after they'd kissed.

"Look, er, Molly…" he had said. "I probably shouldn't've done that – you're so shaken and everything."

"Well…don't apologise…I…I kissed back."

"I know," He had said, tugging at his collar. "But still…let's give it a rest. While we're getting all this sorted, while we're putting this bastard away. Wait for things to be less…complicated."

It set her heart on fire, cutting like a knife. Yet, she understood. Greg had never been one to enjoy complications in his own life – she supposed his job came with enough of those.

One part of her mind pressed for optimism, reminding her that, although she had no control, things would work out for the best and she ought not to let the situation chase her away from the possibilities.

The other part of her wanted to lock herself away in a cupboard and starve to death – that'd be less painful. She couldn't imagine what would happen if they didn't find the man following her. Would she hide for the rest of her life? How long, exactly, would that be? Would Greg tire of it and leave her? She couldn't know.

She sighed as he said good-bye and signed out of the video-chat.

"Anything new?"

"Nope." He shook his head, and then, spinning around in the office chair, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Are you _sure _you have no idea who he is?"

Molly nodded. "Absolutely."

"No familiar faces at all? Nobody who you saw more than other nameless strangers?"

"No one."

"Well, it's _someone."_

"I do realise that." Molly said, crossing her arms. "I just don't know who."

"There's something you're missing. Has to be." He shook his head. "It can't take a genius to figure this out."

She frowned. Slight frustration welling up inside her, Molly shook her head, starting up the stairs and into the washroom. "I'll go have a shower, now."

With nothing else to do Greg pulled out the mattress from inside the sofa, and began to make the bed, tucking in the sheets, the shower making subtle background noise from the floor above. He shook his head, trying to rid it of anything his imagination might try to come up with.

After a minute, his makeshift bed was all made up and he sat down, beginning to thumb through his mobile. Once Facebook and Angry Birds grew passé, he flicked on the telly, watching a rerun of some old soap opera showcasing (surprise, surprise) someone's long lost, switched-at-birth, gay twin in a coma. He was only able to handle it for about a quarter of the hour.

Then, he sat and waited. How long would Molly be in the shower? What was she doing in there?

No sooner had that thought entered his brain, than he sighed loudly, lying back on the mattress, shaking his head. Best not to get started – at least not until he could have the washroom to himself.

He laid back on the pillows, and began flipping through his mobile once more, looking at his case notes. Nothing of consequence, nothing new. No epiphanies. No bright light came, and no new conclusions. Nothing clicked.

Suddenly, and without warning, an ear-shattering scream pitched through the cabin. Greg was on his feet in a moment, running towards the sound, tripping over stairs, pushing open the door to the washroom. Steam enveloped around him, the water pounding against the shower sounded loud in his ears. Molly was standing against the far wall, entrapped in the glass, staring at the frosted window opposite her.

"Molly!" He yelled out to her, reaching over and turning off the water. "What happened?"

Molly's chest heaved. "I—I thought I saw someone outside the window."

"There's no balcony – there's no way anyone could be…" Greg paused, allowing the scene to set into his mind. He coughed. "Could be out there."

He tried to keep his eyes up, at her eyes, but it was no use. Her hair sticking to her face, as she breathed roughly out of her mouth. The water slid down her body, dripping off the subtle curvatures of her hips and breasts, her entire body soaked through.

In a second, he realised where he was staring, and he shook his head, hoping the effect of it all wouldn't show through his jeans. He ripped off his Oxford shirt, pulling Molly's arms through, and walked her out of the shower, back into her room, his arm around her shoulder.

He sat her down, as she continued to breath loudly.

"Calm down, Molly," He said softly, keeping his hand on her shoulder, his thumb tracing small circles on her arm. "It's all right. You're all right."

She swallowed and shook her head. "I saw someone. I really thought I did."

"You're scared," Greg said, nodding to her. "A lot's happened to you."

She shook her head with shaking breath, "He was in my flat. He was in my flat and I didn't even know it. He could've followed us here…just waiting. He killed her – raped her, mutilated her, and slit her throat." She snapped her head over to face him. "And I'm next."

"No, you're not," Greg shook his head adamantly, tightening his grip on her shoulders. "I told you once, I'll tell you again, I'm not going to let anything happen to you. We're going to catch him."

"He escaped the police twice. How is now any different?"

"This time it's personal."

Molly narrowed her eyes, allowing the corners of her mouth to twitch slightly upwards.

Greg felt his heart tremble, and his neck grew hot. "You know what I mean."

His eyes betrayed him again, and he looked down, at the way his shirt was completely soaked through, clinging to her body, long enough to cover her, but short enough for him to see almost all of her legs, still gleaming from the soap and water.

In the next moment, he found Molly's fingers slowly, absentmindedly, tracing up and down his bare stomach and chest. He suppressed a groan at her touch.

Molly noticed, and gave a soft smile at his reaction. It was odd. Considering the recent circumstances, she realised she ought to be shaking, afraid, and certainly Greg ought to have been the very last thing on her mind, rather than creeping to the forefront. Yet, she couldn't help but stare at the subtle outlines of his muscles, over his abdominal and biceps. Without her own consent, she found her breathing rate increased quite substantially.

"Mmm," She muttered just as absentmindedly as the way her hands meandered. "You know…it's kind of funny."

Greg paused, then he managed to choke out in a whisper. "What is?"

"I'm excited now." Molly said softly. "Not scared, just…_excited_."

He hadn't realised how close they'd gotten. Foreheads touching, with Molly's hand still slowly tracing over his middle.

"I've been told to have that effect on people," Greg grinned jokingly.

Molly grinned – the first real smile he'd seen on her in a while – and then mindlessly swatted at him, and bit her lip.

He couldn't stop staring, watching the pressing of her teeth onto her thin lip.

"Greg," She said softly, slightly above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

She blinked, shuffling closer on the mattress. Then, she spoke, running her words together from nervousness. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee sometime."

Greg smiled. "Yeah. That sounds great."

She blinked, an anxious smile lying on her flushed face. She was unsure what to think. Somehow, all the fear from earlier melted away, and all she could think about was how close Greg was, how he made her warm and ticklish from the inside out. If she could sit there for the rest of her life, she figured she'd always be content, just like that.

She leaned forward, softly pressing her lips into his. He reciprocated, lightly moving a hand through her soaked hair, fingering out water as it ran down his hand.

They came apart, staring at one another, mere centimetres apart, breathing in each others air.

Greg, suddenly began to chuckle.

Molly frowned. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's just…" He paused. "This is bloody awful timing. But…"

"Yeah." Molly nodded. "I know. Me too."

Then, in a flashing second, they collided. It was a mess of lips and tongues and bumping teeth. She pushed through his open mouth and, rather boldly, bit onto his lip, causing an instantaneous erection.

She moved from his mouth to his neck, and he tightened his grip over her waist, pulling her in.

He flipped her over onto his back, so that he was on his hands and knees on top of her. The shirt came all the way open, exposing her completely, and Greg lowered himself, closing in the space between them. Molly ran her hand up his neck and moved her fingers through his hair.

He heatedly burrowed his mouth over hers, and she reciprocated, putting forth incredible effort. As though it was the only thing her body required of her. She pulled on his hair, biting his lip, running her tongue along the inside of his mouth.

"Molly," Greg grunted between kisses as her hands lowered down his stomach, "Are we…you sure you wanna…oh my _God." _

She smiled sweetly, before she began to trace her lips along his jaw. "That answers your question?"

"I don't have anything." He grimaced.

Molly, however, didn't seem to care. "I trust you."

Without another word, he sat up on the bed, and swiftly began fumbling with his belt. Molly followed his lead, unbuttoning his jeans, throwing them off his legs with surprising dexterity.

She leaned back onto the pillows, knees apart, and he settled in between them. He was starting to ache as their hips bumped together, already bruising.

He found himself a bit surprised. She seemed a bit uncertain as she moved, as though she wasn't sure exactly what to do. But when he noticed how she reacted every time he put his hands on her, he hardly minded.

As his fingers traced her ribcage, she whimpered lightly, and when he moved it upwards to cup her chest, it grew louder. Everything he was doing had a profound effect over her. It was rather flattering.

Molly pressed towards him, feeling as though she could never be close enough. She was slightly embarrassed, not fully aware of what she was doing. She was a bit rusty, not having been in a relationship in over a year. Still, she knew _something _she could do that might make up for rustiness.

She sunk to her knees off the mattress, letting her tongue caress the bulging vein before allowing the rest through her lips.

Salt came spurting in her mouth, for a moment, she recoiled, coughing. Then, she locked eyes with him. Smiling, her eyes dancing with amusement. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He burned for a moment, embarrassed. He normally wasn't quite so quick of a fuck. Then, he recovered, sliding off the mattress to lift her in the air, the warmth of her sticking to his torso.

They wound up against a wall – pushing and pulling to each other, pressing against the wooden walls for leverage – and tumbling down the stairs, wrapped up in a comforter, falling down into the soft suede sofa, settling into the corner.

"Greg – " Molly managed to splutter, each syllable broken off with another heated kiss. "Just…get…on…with it…will you?"

He shoved inside, biting her mouth, kissing down her jaw, her neck, sucking on her collarbone as he slid back and forth, and then returning to her lips.

Molly moaned into his mouth, breathing heavily in his ear, bucking her hips for any measure of control.

He was in a fog – his heart raced all over - he pulsated and couldn't move fast enough, as he grunted her name, watching her back arch from underneath him.

She moaned, trying to form syllables into something intelligible.

He felt the familiar warmth and pressure developing below his abdomen. _Oh, living Hell, not again – not already. _

Molly pushed upwards, moving them both into a sitting position. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, clutching onto him with her arms and legs, damp from water and sweat.

He pulled out, quickly as possible, the sticky liquid staining the material of the furniture, and then he returned to her, keeping his eyes poised on her.

She couldn't take it. The feeling consumed her. She'd never been necessarily greedy, but, in that moment, she felt as though she could never have enough. She wished he hadn't left when he came. The ghost of him lingered, teasing, every moment he wasn't there, making her wish he was there, and deeper still than before.

She cried out. He felt her stiffen, then relax, releasing, eyes rolling back into her skull, everything leaking out of her.

Their mouths came together, agape, sharing hot, ragged breaths.

He rolled off her, lying back on the arm of the sofa. She laid beside him, hand sweeping through her dripping fringe, chest heaving heavily and quickly. They looked back at each other.

He couldn't quite comprehend exactly. It was the first time in a long time he had been the more experienced of the two in bed (he didn't even want to think about how many people his ex-wife had been with, and Abigail had a promiscuous streak as well). But, then he thought of how every little touch affected her. And he liked that. Not to mention she just felt so damn good – and then with all that pent up energy. It sent shivers down his spine and nearly rejuvenated his erection just thinking about it.

"Holy shit." Molly said, eyes returning to the chandelier overhead.

Greg stopped. He'd never heard her curse before. Then again, he'd never shagged her before, either. He regained control of his own breathing. "Why d'you say that?"

She blinked, still facing the ceiling. "Words do not…I can't explain how fantastic that was."

He cocked his brow, a smirk on his lips. "You should see what happens when I go more than ten minutes."

"What happened to 'giving it a rest,' then?" Molly asked, turning her eyes to face him, smiling.

"To hell with that," Greg muttered, rolling back over her again.


	13. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

It took Molly a few minutes, upon waking in the morning, to recall the night before, or anything for that matter. She had woken slowly, rising from the haze of deep slumber. She had been lying in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, before she even registered that she wasn't in her own flat. A second later, she realised she wasn't wearing anything more than sheets. Dread set in then, just for a moment, and she shot up in bed, looking around herself.

The overly decadent design of the room around her stimulated the rest of the memory of hiding from the stalker in some ritzy holiday spot in Carlisle with Greg.

She turned red as his name popped back into her brain, as the full memory came into perspective.

When it came to sex, Molly was not inexperienced – _under_-experienced, certainly, especially for a woman of thirty-two who had never been married. She'd been hurt by one too many pricks while she was in University to be quick to get into bed throughout her adulthood. Up until the night before.

The night before, she and Greg became a mess of grinding hips and hot skin and ragged breaths. They rolled over for another go more times alone than Molly actually had sex on individual accounts. Which explained how she'd wound up back in the bed, anyhow, considering she barely remembered being in the bed. On the sofa, on the island in the kitchen, on the stairs and against the wall all had much more vivid memories.

She sighed. It was hard to keep everything straight in her head already. On one hand, she was so comfortable with Greg. And one glance from him could set her off. She'd never felt quite this strongly on so many levels about a person. It wasn't simple fascination or liking the feeling of someone fancying her. It was him – completely and utterly – everything about him did something to her.

If that was all there was, everything would be simple. It would work. Judging by the way they'd gotten on the night before, he certainly at least fancied her on a physical level. If that was it, she would be ecstatic, with the excitement on the horizon.

Unfortunately, there was more than that. And, she could not shake _him – _her nameless stalker_._ He even told her that she didn't know where she was, and that should've calmed her mind, yet, it did not. She was still nervous of what was around the corner, still hated to see windows drawn. It made no sense.

Had she and Greg messed it all up? Would it have been better to just wait? In spite of herself, Molly found herself smiling. That was the exact train of thought she had when she'd lost her virginity to her University boyfriend at eighteen. Fourteen years, apparently, didn't make that much of a difference.

Looking in the mirror opposite the bed, she laughed at her rat's nest of hair. Finding Greg's shirt where it fell on the floor, she shrugged it on, tugged a comb over her head, and headed down the staircase.

Greg sat at the table, busying himself with overly blackened toast, and a newspaper.

"Morning," Molly said, suddenly finding herself grinning as she crossed the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. "How'd you sleep?"

"When you finally let me get to sleep?" He looked up at her, finding his lips stuck in a grin as well. "Very well, thanks."

It felt so _normal, _Greg thought, slightly shocked. Sitting in a kitchen, waiting for Molly to emerge from the bedroom, making small talk over coffee. Of course, it really was anything but normal.

Though, it didn't have to be. Realistically, it _could _become the new normal. They just had some obstacles to go through first.

And, these obstacles were, more or less, all he thought about during the day. He was on near constant video-conference with his team. Asking about DNA tests, any developments, shooting out ideas, looking for anybody who could have been suspicious. They were all getting a bit pissed off, but he did not particularly care at the time.

But, at night yet again, the obstacles seemed to vanish into thin air, and somehow he wound up back under covers with Molly, moving with her, memorising the shape of her mouth, the contour of her sides, and seeing exactly what he could do with it all – and what she could do to him.

He signed off video-chat, after a long day of finding nothing (yet again), and with a sigh began to sink into the chair, hands pressing into his brows, massaging his temples.

From behind him, Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, "Hey," she said softly. "It's all right."

"It really doesn't seem like it."

She caressed the top of his neck, playing with his hair, "But it won't do us any good to worry over it."

"And what would do us good?" He asked, turning his head towards her, giving her a quick kiss.

Molly had a soft gleam in her eyes. "I started the shower; it should be hot by now."

Greg hopped up to his feet. "Race you."

In this way, they managed to keep each other from worrying too much. In each other, they found distraction. It was impossible to think of any possible danger with hot water pouring over them, as he pressed against her and she suckled on his neck.

He couldn't remember the last time a woman had been quite so consuming. When they were together, it became hard to think of anything else. Just the way the pressure of the water attacked his skin, and her arms around him, loud to each of his senses.

It was different than things were in the past. It was more than just sex. He liked her smile, and her conversations. The way she tripped over her tongue so easily was rather endearing—he never would have expected that particular reaction, but he'd always thought that way about her. Not to mention, he found her extremely attractive.

She was really something else, as far as Greg was concerned. Sweet and loyal, she potentially revamped every opinion he thought he had on women.

He liked the way she spoke to him. There was a hint of admiration in her voice occasionally, as though she really thought he was something else. He hadn't had that in years – everyone usually disregarded him, but with Molly, it was the opposite.

For once, he made a conscious effort to stay awake long enough to talk with her afterwards. He hadn't done that since his second anniversary with his wife.

Then, lying on his side, facing her on the next pillow over, they would talk.

"Do you really think you'll find him?" Molly asked one night, wide eyes shimmering in the dark.

"Yeah." Greg said sleepily, but unable to take his eyes off her. "We're putting him in prison before he can lay a finger on you or on anybody else."

Molly nodded, even if she didn't quite believe it, it helped to hear him sound so sure of himself.

"You know," He mused, rolling onto his back, and pulling Molly in to lean on his chest. "He was responsible for my first unsolved case."

Wrinkling her brow, Molly frowned. "Was he? And you still have no idea who he is?"

Greg shrugged. "What can I say? He's thorough. And this was before Sherlock, anyway…sorry."

"Sorry? About what?"

"Mentioning Sherlock. Probably still a sore spot with you."

"It's been a year, Greg. Time heals." Molly sighed, yearning for a subject change. "But, anyway. You were saying, about your first unsolved case."

He cocked a brow at her odd behaviour. However, he figured it was simply because of unresolved feelings over Holmes, and shrugged. "Her name was Celeste Paxton. Eighteen. Stalked and murdered, just like Shaelee Birdie. We had pretty much nothing to go on. I suspected her boyfriend for a bit, but we hit a wall with him."

"Her boyfriend?" Molly frowned. "Doesn't that go against his…oh, what'd you call it? _Profile_, or something?"

"Not really. He thought she was cheating on him with Billy."

"Billy?"

"Yeah: Billy Morrison."

Molly stopped, feeling something creep gown her spine. She sat up slowly, her face frozen. "Greg…I think I know him."

"What?" He sat up as well, and they almost bumped heads.

Molly nodded. "Yeah. He…he was at Bart's the day I looked at Birdie's body. He asked me out."

Greg could have sworn his heart stopped beating. The look of sheer horror on his face nearly made Molly want to run away or vomit – he never looked like that, so afraid, so out of control.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, the new sudden connection forming before his very eyes.

"My God," He muttered. "We have our connection."

With this, he stood up, pulling on pyjama bottoms as he hopped down the stairs to the desktop, with Molly following behind, pulling on a white dressing gown.

The screen was blank, but then flashed, and in came the image of the ginger techie, Collin. He hardly noticed at first, his eyes drawn downward, apparently rubbing in hand sanitizer.

Upon looking up, the techie turned green for a second, but then let out a barking laugh. "My God! I was right. You two _are_ shagging up there! Looks like I'm eighty quid richer."

"Shut up," Greg said sharply, before pausing. "Wait, you _bet _on us?"

"Not just me," Collin said. "The whole floor. And some doctor chap named John's in on it too. We all knew you were on the pull."

Molly stared at the computer screen, flushing pink from embarrassment. How could it be so _obvious? _

Greg rubbed his temples passively, sighing from annoyance.

"The Chief Superintendent is going to be so brassed at you, sir." Collin still couldn't wipe the smirk from his face.

"And you're not gonna tell him," Greg snapped back his order. "It's none of your business, anyway."

"Fine, sir," the hacker said, shaking his head. "What can I do for you? Just so you know, though, the web cam wasn't on, if that's what you're worried about. I wasn't shooting no porno or anything."

"Oh, yeah, that's really reassuring," Greg mumbled sarcastically. Then he shook his head. "No, I'm calling because I think we have a lead."

"A lead?" Collin blinked.

"On the Paxton-Birdie-Hooper case?"

Molly could have smiled had she been less afraid. It was a bit of a mouthful.

"Oh. Right." Collin said, sitting up straight in his chair. "What'd you have?"

"I need everything you've got on Celeste Paxton's former boyfriend, William Morrison."

Collin blinked. "I thought he checked out fine?"

"I've got new suspicion." Greg mumbled.

Molly, with nothing else to do, side-stepped out of the room, and returned momentarily with a shirt over her arm, and two cups of tea in her hands. She promptly gave one to Greg, and took the other in both her arms.

"Found anything?" She asked.

Greg pressed his lips together. "Collin's looking."

"Aha, here we are," the techie said, eyes darting from one side of his own screen to the other. "Nothing major, though."

"Well, read it out." Greg said, absentmindedly putting his hand on Molly's waist as he listened.

"All right then," Collin began to read. "William Edgemont Morrison. Born in East London. Thirty-two. Failed out of Kings College in '99. Couldn't afford to go back to any other university. Been married once – apparently a really rummy relationship, looks like she got him arrested for…" Collin squinted at his computer screen. "Driving a getaway car chock-full of heroin. Went to rehab. Is currently clean. And looks like he's a public services custodian, at the moment."

Greg furrowed his brows. "Does he happen to clean the London Library?"

Collin began typing furiously. He blew up his stubbly cheeks for a moment, hard in concentration. Then, he grinned. "Oh, got it."

"What is it?" Molly asked from the arm of Greg's chair.

"Oh, hi, Molly. Didn't see you there," Collin waved slightly, then coughed. "Anyway. Yeah. Morrison's on the rotation for cleaning the London Library."

"That connects him to all three of you." Greg murmured.

"And I'm sending an emergency page to Donovan right now," Collin said, typing away. "Thank God she works late. And we'll get him arrested for the murders of Celeste Paxton and Shaelee Birdie and on suspicion of stalking Molly Hooper."

"Oy," Greg said, a playful glint in his eye. "Don't try going and stealing my job."

Collin smiled back. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

When they hung up and the computer screen went blank, Molly stood in the middle of the room, rather dumbstruck. Then, she grinned wide as possible. "Is that it then?"

"Afraid not," Greg said, shaking his head, hating to see her grin disappear so quickly. "He had an alibi for the first murder. Probably had an accomplice or something we need to watch out for." He paused. "But I wager you're safe to return to London, if you'd like. We can get packed up."

"Or," Molly said, a slight gleam in her eye. "We could do something else. Any ideas?"

Greg cocked a brow. "Just one."

* * *

Sergeant Sally Donovan walked through the doors of the Interrogation Room, watching a rather dishevelled young man whimper and whinge at the table.

Using her most professional face, she walked up to man, putting a file on the silvery surface between them.

As horrible as it sounded, she sort of liked being on her own for this case – proving she could do it might just be the push the Chief Superintendent needed to give her a promotion once a position opened up – and with the way things were going with Greg...well, she hoped he wouldn't have any hard feelings.

"All right," She said. "You know why you're here."

"Not really, no." Morrison said, snivelling pathetically. "I ain't got a clue."

Opening the file, Donovan put three professional photographs on the table between them. One of Celeste Paxton, one of Shaelee Birdie, and one of Molly Hooper. "Who are these?" She asked, "Your girlfriends?"

Morrison looked at the pictures, giving a baffled expression. "One was – bloody fif'een years ago! 'Fore she got 'erself killed."

"She got herself killed, Mr Morrison?" Donovan grabbed firm hold of the statement. "Or did you do it?"

"Oh, bloody 'ell," Morrison said, grabbing onto fistfuls of hair. "I dint kill 'er! I was in France."

"What about for her?" Donovan said, picking up the photograph of Shaelee Birdie. "Where were you when she died?"

"I dun even know who tha' is!" Morrison protested.

"Shaelee Birdie. Works at the London Library." Donovan said evenly. "When _you _clean."

"An' 'cause my old universi'y gelfrien' was killed, I'm a suspec'?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I can' move on or nothin' can I?"

Donovan folded her arms across her chest tightly. "Because Shaelee Birdie was killed by the same man – who was doing the same thing – _stalking._ You are the only connection they have. And even though you were out of the country when Celeste died, you're obviously connected somehow. So you'd better start talking. It's over."

Morrison shook his head vehemently. "I dunno! Never seen 'er 'fore!"

"You know what happened to them, don't you?" Donovan said, settling into the chair opposite Morrison. "Drugged. Raped. Cut in the _throat_."

He twitched.

"Twice, wasn't it, Billy?"

"SHUT UP!" He slammed his hand on the table. "I din't do i'!"

"You'd better have one good alibi." Donovan said, clearly unimpressed. Then, she lifted the third photograph, the one of Molly Hooper. "Recognise her?"

The way Morrison's jaw dropped was good enough of an answer as any.

"You fancy her? Think she's pretty?"

Morrison honestly looked utterly flabbergasted. He was good, Sally would give him that, too bad for him she had experience with psychopaths.

"Wha'?" He said. "'s a crime now to chat somebody up in an 'ospi'al?"

"It might be." Donovan said, leaning over the questioning table. "Unless you've got a good reason why she's been stalked – just like the other two. Ever since you two met." She lowered her voice. "You can see where this is going, can't you?"

Morrison's brows drew together. "I ain't no s'alker. I mean, Chris' I me' 'er once. Dint even ask 'er out af'erward."

"So you developed a fake relationship with her, following her everywhere."

"_No. _Bloody well forgot 'bout 'er." Morrison said, adamantly. "She ain't exac'ly my type. So fligh'y, quie' y'know? Quiet ones ain' the best for da'ing. Quiet, shy – that don' work for me no more. Besides. She got a nice enough face, but seriously lackin' in other asse's if you s'cuse me for bein' crass, Sergean'."

Donovan paused. Morrison had just negated the entire profile. Obviously trying to shift the blame from him. If only he knew – nobody said a thing about the profile, and he had just given her a complete foil.

"Does it bother you?" She asked solidly.

Morrison seemed taken aback. "Does wha' bother me?"

"Talking so badly about Molly—_Kitten, _you called her in your emails. Why now are you denying what you obviously feel about her? What are you trying to prove?"

"I don' fuckin' know 'er!" Morrison yelled. "I dint do nothin'!"

Donovan sighed. This was going to be more difficult than she imagined. For a split second, she almost wished Greg was in the interrogation room too. Almost.


	14. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Molly shuffled down the stairs, her bag swung over her shoulder. It was such a relief, she realised, to be heading home, to know that her flat wouldn't be broken into anymore, to go back to a sense of _normal. _

She smiled at Greg as he quickly picked up around the cabin. Disconnecting her mobile from the computer, he handed it back to her. "Here you go, then."

No sooner had he done so, than all the lights in the cabin flickered off.

"Power outage," He mumbled. "I guess we're lucky we're leaving today then, yeah? Ready to go?"

Molly nodded, all too ready to leave it all behind her, when the email alert sounded from her phone. Pulling it from her pocket, she glanced at the screen. Unable to suppress her gasp, she fell back onto the arm of the sofa.

"Greg!" She croaked.

He was by her side in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"Morrison…he was taken into custody, right?"

Greg nodded.

"Then you've got the wrong man," Molly whispered, her mouth suddenly feeling dry, handing the Detective Inspector her mobile.

There it was. An anonymous email. Greg opened it, refusing to believe the worst without cause.

Unfortunately, he wound up with cause.

_Kitten, _the email read. _I noticed your mobile was being traced, so I didn't call. Actually, that's why I've been avoiding contact. Don't be mad, sweetheart – it's all for you. I hope that wanker who kidnapped you won't be reading your mobile. Don't think he will – doesn't seem very bright. But, I've found you, Kitten. I'm coming for you. No one can hurt you from now on._

Greg wanted to throw the damn thing down in an instant. How? How could he have possibly found her?

_Speak of the devil, _it continued. _I got one of them. One of those tossers who locked you in that filthy flat and made you fight? (I know how much that bothered you – hate to call up old memories, but hopefully this'll help you sleep easily.) I know how frightened that made you – so I've taken the liberty of disposing of one of them. Claimed he was a doctor. That's funny – he doesn't seem to know GHB when he sees it. He'll be at Bart's for a while now – but don't worry, he won't be breathing much longer. _

"Oh, my God." Greg sighed, realisation washing over him. "He has John."

Molly turned green; she swayed from where she was sitting. "Is he all right?"

"I don't know." Greg mumbled, taking out his own mobile. He lifted it up to find the screen black, except for the _CHANGE BATTERIES _light flashing.

"Fuck!"

He made a dash for the door.

"Molly," he said, throwing on his coat. "Stay here. I'm going to use the phone at the front desk to call Bart's and see if John's all right, and if they know who drugged him."

"Can't you use mine?"

Greg shook his head. "Looks like he's got it wired somehow. He's tracing it. He'd know I was making the calls."

Molly nodded, her breath shaking.

He walked up to her, taking her hands. "Don't open the door for anyone. I'll be back in two seconds. Just…don't open the door, all right?"

The cottage was cold and solitary without Greg, Molly found. She sat on the sofa, with her legs pulled up to her chest, resting her chin on her knee, trying to distract herself.

John was hurt, she thought, her lungs constricting. And all because of her. He'd been drugged, because he'd helped her defend herself. It wasn't right. She hoped he was all right. Just, not dead or hurt beyond repair.

Five minutes passed. The power flickered back on. Ten minutes. Sitting alone in the cabin was deafening. She needed to _do _something.

An idea came into her head. It probably was a very bad idea, but the only one she had. Maybe, if the stalker was attached to her mobile, he would get a video downloaded onto it. She didn't think that Paxton or Birdie tried to talk to him, to try to put it through his head that they didn't want this. Truthfully, the mere idea made her start to shake. But she had to try something.

She sat down in front of the desktop, connected her mobile to the machine once more, and turned on the web cam. She breathed slowly, pressed _Record, _and started talking.

* * *

Greg ran through the front doors of the main building. Showing his I.D to the small swell of people in line, shoving them aside. He caught an annoying whiff of perfume that smelt of money. Dodging the wearer, a rather twiggy young woman, and accidentally bumping straight into the man next to her, he didn't hesitate to push the other man out of the way. Couldn't they just _move_? Were they so consumed with their holiday plans that none of them could budge an inch for the police?

To the clerk at the front desk, he said, "I need to use your phone."

"You can't just come back here and—"

He shoved his I.D card in the clerk's face and pushed through behind the desk. Dialling the number for Bart's he cursed in a hushed voice, and waited for the phone to ring, plugging in his own mobile to the wall.

After a moment of ringing, an overly friendly correspondent voiced, "St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," He said, letting the introduction slur. "I need information on Dr. John Watson. How long he's been admitted, status," _If he's dead or alive. _"Who might've done it."

"Sorry," The correspondent said. "What wing might he be in?"

"He was drugged. GHB, I think."

"We didn't get a call for that," The correspondent said confusedly. "I'll check over the whole hospital. It might take a moment."

Greg shook his head, cringing, and looked towards his own phone, hoping that Molly would have a mind to call or text him if she saw anything suspicious.

He ignored the pounding in his ears, the throb of his head, and the haze over his eyes.

The people on the other side of the desk looked impatient, their posh eyes set, appalled at the disruptive start of their holidays. It was disgusting to see how little they cared about what might actually be happening. However, he didn't have room to be angry, with his mind already in such a buzzed state.

The clerk was trying to calm them. "I assure you this doesn't happen often. Just a drill, of course."

"A _drill. _Why would you need a drill if it never happens?"

The clerk sucked in her cheeks. "New rule. The Cumbria Constabulary wants to be certain we're prepared for anything that could possibly happen. Please, just sit and make yourselves comfortable."

The correspondent remained silent for a long time. Greg heard a keyboard clicking from the other end of the phone line. "I'm sorry. There's no John Watson admitted into our hospital."

Greg's face fell, and within that moment, his mobile went off. The caller I.D flashed, **JOHN. **

Slamming the hotel phone down, he quickly picked up his mobile. "John? You all right?"

"Yeah. Fine," John's voice replied, utterly calm from the other end, albeit a bit confused. "Woke up a bit…well, I felt a bit hung-over. My flat's upside down, too. But I wrote a note, apparently, telling me to call you. Did I call last night or something? Do you have any idea what's going on?"

Greg felt his entire body freeze up. He could not breathe. His heart stopped. The heated air felt as though he was dunking into a bucket of ice.

"Shit" was all he said, letting his own mobile crash to the ground, cracking the screen.

But he was out in an instant, running back to his car. Everything stopped. His heart stopped. His breathing stopped. Mind in a fog, he couldn't be pressed to think of anything else. Adrenaline kept his body going as he pressed the gas pedal down to the floor, a flume of black smog gushing out the back.

Stupid. Stupid. He was so fucking stupid. Get the bodyguard away from the victim using the pseudo-injury of a third party – they _taught _that sort of thing in training. It was obvious in hindsight.

The car raced along the lane, swerving on the curves, swearing and muttering insults to himself.

His watch ticked in his ears, each passing second was a danger moment. It only took one to pull a trigger. He hated it. He was running out of time. The ticking continued. He wished he could stop it.

He continued, breaking speed records, with only one thing on his mind. _Molly._

* * *

**A/N: Normally I don't like to do author's notes mid-story, but I'd like to know. In the next chapter the stalker's identity becomes clear. Who do you think it is? Your clue: we**_** have **_**already met him. **


	15. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Sitting before the computer, Molly sighed, "And, so, I won't run anymore. You…you don't…can't. You. Can't. Ruin. Me."

With this, her mobile buzzed loudly on the table. Lowering a brow, she disconnected it from the computer to see the text waiting for her.

_Greg: TOBY _

Molly lowered her brow. Hadn't his mobile run out of battery? Well, he must have plugged it into the car or in the lobby.

Then there came a calm, paced knocking at the door.

Molly stood, knowing that he might have a nervous conniption if she was late for answering the door. Especially in a time like this.

She unlatched the door, letting it swing open with a slight breeze.

Confusion hit her in the face on the other side of the door like a brick wall. She lowered her brows at the mass of red hair on the other side.

"_Collin_?" She asked blinkingly at the ginger techie. "What're _you_ doing here?"

He smiled breathlessly, elation in his voice as he spoke. "Hey there, Kitten."

Molly's blood froze in her veins as the earth moved beneath her feet. "Why…why did you call me that?"

Then, like lightning, behind her head, she made the connection. Memories flashed through her brain, crowded rides on the Tube, his face stuck in the crowd; walking through Bart's down to the morgue with him covered in a shadow, passing him in the bakery and not thinking anything of it. It suddenly clicked as her throat dried out entirely.

He smiled. "Come on, Kitten, he's gone for now. We have time to get away."

She tried to slam the door back in his face, but found it stopped.

"More games, Kitten?" He asked, chuckling slightly. "Just 'cause I sit at a computer all day doesn't mean I have no muscle, dear. I did boxing in secondary school, remember? But – okay, I'll play – you've got ten seconds."

She slammed the door, switching the lock. Running backwards, Molly ran to the kitchen island.

"Knife, knife, knife, knife." She looked around, blinking madly. "Where are all the bloody knives?"

In her quick sweep over, she couldn't find any knives. There were plates stacked neatly, several cups, and a spatula. Nothing of use.

"Time's up." Collin's voice rang through the door. The lock clicked, and he slid through.

Molly dropped down below the island, trying her hardest not to breathe.

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Collin sang.

_Oh, God. _Molly thought, wanting to squeeze her eyes together and make it all go away.

From the reflection in the oven, she could make out Collin walking nonchalantly around the cabin, hands buried in his pockets.

"This is actually a really nice place, I'll give Greg that much. Maybe we could come here for our six month, Molly. I know it might be a bit much a bit early, but why not rush, right? We'll be together forever, so it won't ruin anything."

As he looked around, Molly thought she saw something familiar in the way he moved. The way his eyes darted around. He looked oddly similar to Jim. She began to shake.

_No. No. No. It's not him. Not the same. _

"Remember when we first met? At Bart's, in the cafeteria? When I went to say good-bye to Shaelee? I didn't really understand what you meant back then. Don't think you did either." He talked, moving a gloved finger over a painting, checking for dust. "But, you know, when you grabbed me, wanting someone to save you from that stupid chav Morrison chatting you up, I felt something. I couldn't believe it when I realised you did too."

The memory flashed in Molly's brain. Talking with Billy Morrison in the cafeteria line. She couldn't remember Collin there at all. Wait…she had bumped into the person ahead of her in line, hadn't she? All she remembered was bright green eyes.

Another memory came to mind: the pet shop, when she'd discovered her cards stopped working. The stranger who'd helped her, who'd given her cab fare and paid for the cat litter. He'd had freckles and wasn't a stranger at all.

Collin's face formed in her head. Bright green eyes, short red hair, sprinkling of freckles.

_Oh, God. I've ignored everything. _

Collin continued. "I've missed you, Molly. It's been unbearable. Just sitting in London, knowing you're up here with that deceitful wanker. Knowing that I can't do anything about it. I've seen his game. Isolating you. Trying to take you from me."

His reflection disappeared from the oven.

Molly held her breath, and slowly, crawled on her hands and knees to try and peek on the other side of the island.

"Found you, Kitten."

She screamed, spinning around to see Collin's face centimetres from her.

_Breathe. Flatten your palm. Push up on his nose. _Molly moved swiftly as the thought. _Conserve energy. _

As he withdrew from the hit, she slid over the island, knocking over stacks of plates, running towards the door.

She almost made it out when a set of hands pulled her back. Molly jabbed her elbows as hard as she could into his stomach. He recoiled and she made a run for it. But by then it was too late. Collin blocked the door, hunched over.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, trying to keep her voice even.

"How can you ask that?" Collin said, appearing almost genuinely concerned. "You're in danger."

"Actually, I gathered that." Molly said, backing away from the man opposite her slowly.

"No, no, no." He blinked. "You don't understand. I'm trying to save you."

"Save me? Save me from _what?" _

"From _him." _Collin said plainly. "Oh, my God. He got to you, didn't he?"

Molly blinked.

"He's switched it around, hasn't he?" Collin groaned. "Oh, Molly – _Kitten_, he's the stalker. Not me. You love me. You said it. You meant it. Remember that time we went to Venice together? And you said you'd always love me? It was after that fight about price of hotel rooms."

"I've never been out of the UK." Molly said softly, slowly inching towards the window.

"I knew it." He said, throwing his hands up in the air. "I knew he got to you. I thought my emails – thought I could remind you of all the good times we have. Granted, your opening the door after I tapped into his phone should've told me as much. Remind you how much I care about you. And about how much you care about me."

Molly shook her head, and tried to muster up the courage she had while talking to a web cam, only minutes earlier. "I don't know you."

"You know, Molly. I should be rightly brassed about you whoring yourself out like this. But, it's probably not your fault – see, I _like _giving you the benefit of the doubt. I like it a lot more than I've liked it before. I've had a change—I'm a lot more understanding than before. Even when we just started dating – I'm better now. Remember that in our future together."

He paced around. Molly looked around herself for something. A fork, even. Something. Anything.

"And don't try to lie and say that you 'didn't do anything.' I'm not that stupid. Remember when I said I wasn't filming? Yeah. I lied. Well, _technically _I didn't. Did you catch the double negative? Got quite a dirty little video on my memory stick now, you little slut."

Molly's heart skittered, threatening to jump through her chest.

Why did it have to be an electric fireplace? She'd never wanted to see a fire poker more in her life.

"That old bastard probably made you do it, didn't he? Held you down? Don't worry. We can take care of him real soon. I've got a guy, you know – he can get me the craziest drugs you wouldn't _dream _of surviving. Completely mind-blowing."

Molly looked around. Grabbing a vase on an end table, she threw it at the window. Glass shattered. She tried to pull through it, the shards ripping through her skin. Embedding inside and making her bleed. She was almost through. Then, somebody pulled her back.

"What'd you do _that _for, Molly?" Collin asked, a firm hold on her arm. She tried to rip it away, as John had taught her, but found herself woozy at the sudden sight and scent of her own blood. "Oh, you've made a mess now. I hate it when you make messes, Molly."

So much blood. How could a window cause so much blood? She looked around, and saw the switchblade in Collin's other hand. She swayed where she stood, knees giving out, and falling into his arms.

"You know. It was torture – _fucking torture – _to sit there and listen to you scream his name." He shook his head, paused for a moment, and then his lips grew into a twisted smile. "But, don't worry. You'll be screaming my name soon enough."

She tried to shriek, one last time, hope Greg—or anyone was close enough to hear, but Collin took a handkerchief, and shoved it in her face. No sooner had she inhaled than everything went black.


	16. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

By the time Greg came barging through the doors, Molly was gone. The window reduced to shards and there was blood everywhere. He shook at the sight, burning it into his brain without permission.

He was speechless. Nothing came to his lips, no swears, no tears, just blank. He was furious, but too furious for screaming. Too furious for words. She was gone, and as far as he could see, there was no clue as to where they were. But it wasn't over. He wouldn't let it be.

Molly was going to be all right. He'd vowed it before, and though it seemed odd for a divorcee to say, but he would always keep things he vowed. There wasn't another option: Molly would walk away from this on her own two feet. He'd guarantee it.

The Cambria Constabulary arrived shortly after he did. Taping off the premises, taking blood samples, looking for fingerprints. Any sign of where she could be. Greg might've been kicked away from the cabin, forced to step outside, had he not had his Scotland Yard I.D with him.

He watched the forensics team spray down the room and search for extra blood or bodily fluids.

Other than the blood visible by the window, there wasn't any extra hiding in corners. They found plenty of semen throughout the cabin, Greg prayed silently to any deity who might listen that it was his. It was answered a few minutes later, when the forensic pathologist declared it several days old, shooting a sly look towards him.

Anything on the island was on the ground, evidence of a struggle, and the lamp laid unplugged under the broken window. They took prints, but quickly only found them to be Molly's.

They quickly viewed the surveillance, finding it had short circuited on the extra power supply.

It almost looked as though Molly had a scuffle with herself. Only her DNA was found, other than the semen (which was too old to be relevant to the case at hand).

"Dreadful business." The Detective Inspector for the Cumbria Constabulary (his name was Joshua or Jeremy or Jeffery or…_did it fucking matter?) _"She was your wife? Girlfriend?"

Greg shook his head. "No. Not really. I'm in charge of a case of the man who's stalking her. Took her away from London for protection."

"That worked well," Joshua/Jeremy/Jeffery muttered sarcastically, resulting in a stare down from Greg. He coughed. "For purely professional purposes, the semen's yours?"

Greg blinked. He supposed it did look strange, and they'd find our from a quick DNA test anyhow. "Yeah."

Detective Inspector Joshua/Jeremy/Jeffery nodded. "I'm sure you realise how this looks."

Greg nodded gravely.

"However," The other Detective Inspector mused. "The security in the main building and on the drive over wasn't altered, so we do know you weren't in. But, we do have cause…"

"I understand." Greg said through his teeth. "But this is my case."

"It was in London," He reminded him. "Now we're up here, and what happened here is mine. But maybe we can work together."

Greg lowered his brow. "I don't have time for pitching ideas back and forth. This man kills the women he stalks."

"Well, then, you've got a suspect?"

"No. He never left evidence."

"Now he did," An office called from the back of the cabin. "Look, the web cam's been running for hours."

Greg's eyes snapped back to the Joshua/Jeremy/Jeffery "Mind if I take a look with you?"

* * *

The video opened with Molly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She took a deep breath, and looked straight at the camera.

"I don't know if you'll get this. Or who you even are. Or what exactly you want. But I…" She inhaled slowly again. "I don't know if the others tried to talk to you. But you've…you have some things wrong."

Joshua/Jeremy/Jeffery/whatever shook his head. "First mistake, that. Can't reason with the crazies."

Greg ignored him, turning up the volume.

Molly went on. "I don't know you. You don't know me. You…You've got it wrong." She bit her lip. "I don't love you – you don't love me. You have to let it go through – this is all a mistake. And I'm done with it."

Greg drew his brow, and focused in on Molly's digital image.

"I'm going to do whatever," She paused, shook her head, and went on, "Anything it takes. Anything at all. If it's me you want, you can't have it. If it's the chase…I'm…I'm through with running. If it's manipulation you want…you…you can't have it. I'm through with hiding."

Well, then, Greg thought, what did she intend to do?

"I know," Molly's recording continued. "I know that you've…_killed_ Celeste Paxton and Shaelee Birdie. I don't know why, exactly. Your emails sounded like you thought they were cheating. But…there's, there's no relationship. So, just stop it. _Stop. _I'm going to live. If I need somebody to walk me places, I'll do it." She opened her eyes, contained fury gushing through the cornea, "But, you stay the bloody hell away from me."

She sighed. "And, so, I won't run anymore. You…you don't…can't. You. Can't. Ruin. Me."

From inside the computer screen, they heard the soft hum of a mobile. Molly looked down. Then got up to answer the door.

Greg felt a pang of anger welling up in his chest at that. Didn't he tell her not to answer the door? She might have been fine if she had just _listened_ to him.

Then, without warning, as she unlatched the door and opened it, the screen went black. Replacing the video, sat a strip of font.

**NICE TRY, WANKERS.**

"Well, is that it then?" Joshua/Jeremy/Jeffery said, beginning to stand up. "What other evidence do we have?"

The young officer looked at a clipboard that was too large for her petite hands. "The blood's only Hopper's.

"Hooper," Greg mumbled. "It's Hooper."

The officer shrugged. "The fingerprints don't match anyone either."

Greg however, still stared at the computer screen. There was something humming underneath it all.

"Hey! Quiet down!" He hissed to the other two officers. "The audio's still running."

The younger officer managed to raise the volume quite a bit, with some fancy looking program Greg thought resembled something off Dr Who.

They could make out a voice. A young man, as assumed. Northern accent, as though local.

A chill rushed down his spine as he heard the stalker call out to Molly. _Here kitty, kitty, kitty, _he said.

And that's when something clicked. The voice was familiar. He had definitely heard it before. But, somehow, he could not place it.


	17. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Molly woke up, her head pounding, in a small room. Sunlight streaked through crooked blinds. She sat up instantly, and the room gave way, the walls seemed to bulge and sizzle around her.

Trying to shake it off, she began looking around herself. A bland guest room, it appeared. Or maybe that was simply the way the room blurred and phased around her. A twin-sized bed made neatly underneath her. An empty dresser. Or perhaps it had something on it. It was hard to tell.

Taking a quick look at herself, Molly tried to assess any damage, but could hardly recognise herself. She had a long jagged cut in her forearm, a large chunk of her side stung, and she could see bloodstains from under a tightly wrapped bandage.

She had been redressed in some sort of silken, floral nightdress. She might have jumped to some sort of conclusion, but her head roiled and pounded too much to risk thinking.

"Well then," She thought. "Might as well go by instinct."

She shifted her weight over the side of the bed, began to stand, but instantly found her knees knocking underneath her own weight. She fell over in the next second, head still throbbing. Using unprecedented strength, she lifted herself to her hands and knees.

Panting, surprised at the infinite soreness racking her body, she slowly began to crawl to the door. Wrapping her hand around the doorknob, she struggled to pull on it, and found it swing open easily. She might have found it odd that a door was left unlocked, had her mind been in a lesser haze.

She wasn't sure exactly of what she ought to do. The last thing she remembered happened in the cabin, bleeding out, Collin holding her back, and fainting.

Her arms quivered underneath her, turning rubbery as she began to crawl down the hallway. She didn't have enough strength to hold up her head, and so she stared at the ground. White carpet. Bleach white – as though it was constantly cleaned.

As she moved, a pair of socked feet came into view, accompanied by a silky whisper. "I see you've woken up, then, Kitten."

Before she knew what was happening, she was lifted in the air. Her vision dazed in and out, spinning and blurring everything. She swung her hands out, trying to swat away, but to no avail.

"You shouldn't have moved," Collin said evenly, carrying her across the room. "The drug's still in your system. Pretty cool, though. The more you move, the more sedated you become."

He placed her carefully on a wiry futon, sitting her up on a pillow.

"No, shhh," He cooed. "Relax. You'll be better off."

Molly tripped over her tongue, feeling as though it took up the entirety of her mouth. "Let me…let me go."

"Shhhh," He repeated. Molly couldn't tell, the room still seemed dark and hazy and moved around in erratic patterns like a dark kaleidoscope.

She tried to blink away the haze, as she felt sudden external pressure moving against her chest and something warm, wet and slimy gliding across her lower lip. Shaking her head furiously, she swatted around her face as though at a million gnats.

Molly shook her head, as the swatting stopped, her arms suddenly restrained against the futon.

"I told you," Collin's voice came in her ear. "If you're still, it'll get better."

After a moment of sitting still, the room came into focus. It was possibly the cleanest flat she'd ever sat in, the smell of bleach hit her nostrils in a nauseating chemic breeze.

"See?" He drawled, tracing her collar bone lightly. "Better."

She twitched slightly, wanting to burn off her skin as he pressed against it.

"Don't." She managed to shake out on a restrained breath.

Collin jolted back, looking confused. "Oh. Right. You're still upset over what he did to you, aren't you? Too soon. See – this is why you're _better_ – you're sensitive, fragile. You need me."

Molly just blinked, trying to lift up her heavy arms to swat away, but found them rendered immobile.

"Oh," Collin said after a moment. "That reminds me. I found your hair."

"My…my hair?"

Collin left her eyeshot, coming back momentarily with large fistfuls of long hair. "When I heard you got it cut," he explained. "I set off for your barber – you know you shouldn't have done that, right? Always ask me before altering anything – and found your colour and bought extensions. Now, let's get it hooked up."

Molly blinked, finding her limbs too heavy to move them, and feeling utterly helpless as he approached her, running his hands through her hair, and beginning to fiddle with her head.

He talked the whole time while he fiddled with her head from behind.

"You know, Kitten," He said. "I've gotten a lot more patient lately. You should've seen me years ago. I'd have gotten so _angry _with you. But, not anymore. You just require," He pulled on her head, attaching hooks to a bottom layer. "Some adjustments."

Trying to remain coherent, Molly managed to utter out, "Ad…adjustments?"

"Uh," Collin explained. "I've been trying for so long – so _fucking long – _to find someone. Someone perfect who would just love me. Just me. I had that once, you know. Susan. But she died. Celeste wound up being a piss poor choice. She tried to run away when I tried to fix her. I just wanted to talk to her—get here away from that chav. I couldn't find anyone else good enough for _years. _Thought I was gay for a bit, really – couldn't stand girls, too overt, flirtations, sluttish." He sighed. "But then Shaelee and I started dating. That went fine, for a long time, really. But then she fucked it up. This huge bloke just started being _around _her all the time. Kept files of my efforts too. Then she went and banged that librarian."

He pulled on Molly's hair again, sharply. "What _is _it with you girls, anyway?" He asked, frustration dripping from his voice. "You all get off on this fatal attraction shit. She almost called the police. Thankfully I'd hacked into her phone so the 999 call wouldn't go through. Little whore."

In the next moment, he was right beside Molly's face, tracing her jaw with his fingers. "But you…you're different. You're the closest thing to perfection I've seen – the prototype of the perfect woman. God, Molly…Kitten, I just—I love you so much. My soul is twisted into you, you're mine. I breathe for you. I'm so lost and all I can see is you. But—and just fuck it all with my luck – you aren't perfect."

Molly squirmed away, trying to ignore the way her world was beginning to blur. Collin, however, grabbed her wrists, hard enough to leave a bruise. Involuntarily, she cried out.

He went on. "Not yet. But, close enough to take my breath away. You're all I see – the only person I want to be with forever. And I know I'm the only person you want to be with. The way you shy away from strangers – you like lonely evenings, the soft timbre of you voice. You don't like people. See, Molly, we're made for each other."

He quickly took out an eyedropper, jammed it through her lips, and sent some sort of gritty liquid spurting down her throat.

She held her breath, afraid to move, but feeling her chest begin to prickle with numbness.

Collin, however, carried on as though he hadn't done anything. "But, still. You aren't perfect yet. You didn't ask my permission to get your hair cut, or to leave London. That's how this relationship works, Kitten. I'm in charge of you. You talk to too many people, yet. You've a sluttish streak. You could've fought a bit harder when he tried to pin you down. Just…for me, tell me that he forced you."

Molly shook her head, the room zoomed in and out in her vision, pulsing the setting.

"_Tell me." _He growled, his voice growing threatening. "Tell me _now." _

She couldn't find words, her mind hazed.

"Of course he did – what a stupid question on my part. You just went along with it because you had to. He didn't offer you a choice. Well, don't worry. I have the video and I have access to the records, and we'll ruin him. Just like I'm ruining Billy Morrison and Maryann Thompsen. Making it look like they're involved in drug rings, setting them up with people to make that a reality – even putting _my _neck on the line to show that sex video to involve Maryann. I'll be creative with Greg, though. Give me a bit, and I'll whip up a bender."

He smiled at her. "And then we'll live happily ever after, like in storybooks. That's what you want, isn't it, Kitten? Of course it is."

"I—I…" Molly stuttered.

"Shut up." Collin demanded. "Oh, Molly, just swear you'll stay with me. Forever. Fuck – I need you. You need me. Just swear you'll stay. Swear you'll be perfect. Swear you won't whore around anymore like the rest of them."

She felt the room spin, she was losing her focus. What had just happened? She struggled to remember, but seemed to remember the eyedropper poking between her lips again.

"See – _this –" _Collin explained, holding up a black memory stick. "This is your second strike. I give all my girls three strikes. Three chances to be a whore before I crack down on them. I think it's rather valiant of me, don't you?" He shook his head. "But don't let that get to your head. That's what Celeste did. I still remember it like it was yesterday."

He began pacing, walking over to the window, the image of his first kill still fresh in his brain. Celeste on her knees crouched in a corner, her whimpers deliciously pathetic.

"Oh, please – Collin," she'd begged, crying. "Stop it! Stop! We never went out. I love Billy! Please, Collin. Just…please. I won't tell anyone, I _promise._"

Well, he thought bitterly, if she'd loved the chav so much she shouldn't have led him on—she shouldn't have told him that they'd always be together. She had almost been perfect, but there it went down the drain – and she denied everything, the bitch. Collin shook his head at the memory. It was so _unfair. _He was so unlucky in love.

He continued addressing Molly. "Of course, don't deny everything. I hate that, too. You need to be honest with me. You'll find I'm flexible for the girls I love. But when you lie – Shaelee did that – well, I get angry."

All he had wanted to do with Shaelee was to talk to her, let her know she had two strikes. She denied everything, acted like she wasn't even dating any man. As though he hadn't noticed the way he was around all the time – oh what's his name? – _George Willis. _She'd even claimed she was a lesbian, the cunt. He hated liars. What did she think? That he'd be okay with her fucking with him like that? Saying she loved him, and then denying the cheating. What was that all about?

All of a sudden, he snapped back to the room. Kneeling beside Molly, he took her hand in his. He stared at her—his little kitten. The way her eyes glazed, the film of sweat building in on her face. She wouldn't use her last strike. He could tell.

He even considered giving back her first strike. That one had been a full year ago, after all, before they'd even been together. But Jim had told him how _attached _she'd been – that was strike one for such attachment and the innuendo that carried in his late friend's voice. Strike two had been her allowing the Detective Inspector to burrow inside her.

How could she have let that happen, anyhow? The Detective Inspector was much too old for her. He'd seen him with women before – and Collin had been utterly disgusted.

How could they let someone so perverted into Scotland Yard? And as a senior officer, no less. He wondered how many people knew he fucked in cabs and then left his date without breakfast in the morning. That, he thought solemnly, was _demented. _

Collin let his eyes move back to Molly and found himself smiling. She was worth mercy – she was perfect. And she'd love him. He wrapped a hand around her sweaty face, and pulled her in, gnawing at her limp tongue. She wrenched away with what little power she could.

Exasperatedly, he pulled a little packet from his trouser pocket, opening it, he poured the whole contents into her mouth, shutting her mouth and blocking off any other airways, forcing her to swallow.

For a moment while the powder clogged the inside of her throat, Molly forgot everything. Her head felt heavy, her arms of lead, and, once again, everything faded into blackness.

When she woke up again, either an hour or two days later, she found that she couldn't be any more vulnerable if she was completely paralysed. The drug kept her in a fog. Time passed slowly, but she couldn't remember what happened a minute before. A drip in the faucet pounded in her ears making her head throb.

She was awake but every movement would have taken all her stamina. She tried to work out a plan to run away, but wild obstacles appeared in her mind and she could not have a single coherent thought.

Through her intoxicated haze, Molly was able to make out the flat slightly. Everything was painstakingly cleaned, dusted to perfection, shining and reeking of bleach. She paused herself. Hadn't she realised this before? But, wasn't this the first time she was in the room?

She tried to make herself focus, letter her eyes catch on a framed photograph across from her on a white shelf. Using everything she could, she just tried to focus. Soon, a girl came into view. She was a young, blond, pretty thing. At least, as far as Molly could tell. The next photograph over was one of another girl, a bit older and thinner. And right next to it, it seemed, was a mirror.

But, wait, was she standing in front of it? That's the only thing the image seemed to convey. So she must've been. But…no, she was lying on her back.

She groaned, feeling stupid and worthless, unable to comprehend something so simple as her current position.

Collin sat at a desk, surrounded by several large laptops and desktops, busying himself with something, occasionally talking over his shoulder towards her, except she couldn't follow the conversation. Never before had she felt so completely stupid.

After what felt like years but seemed like two minutes, he approached the futon once more, sitting next to her, all together too close.

He reached over, and played with her extensions. "So, Kitten. Doesn't it feel good to be home?"

Molly flapped her jaw up and down, but felt unable to make her vocal chords vibrate.

"I suppose it does. After all – you'll be here all the time now." He grinned. "Doesn't this feel so much better than being in that shitty morgue all the time? With all those cadavers – not that that's all too bad. It's kind of sexy, actually—all those dead bodies. But, I can't afford you traipsing around with all those other men down there."

Molly blinked.

"So, I think it's rather obvious why I had to get into Bart's files and have you sacked." Collin shook his head. "You know though, it was actually pretty fucking hard. Somebody else was messing with your files. Probably that wanker-stalker you've got. Your bank accounts and all that just disappeared – I couldn't find anything to hack into."

He almost smiled at the memory. It had brought them closer together, after all. If he hadn't noticed anything dodgy about her files, he might have not realised she was being followed. And then where would they be?

No, it was better for them both that he'd found the early warning signs. So, he'd paid her rent to keep her safe from the roads and from that old fucker – and he arranged for the hospital to let her go. After all, if she could support herself, she wouldn't need him.

That was no good – she ought to be dependant on him for everything. After all, the perfect woman, she needed her boyfriend for all things.

"Well, before we can start in our lives together," Collin said, moving her legs over his and putting an arm around her. "We have to do some tests. We have to make you perfect."

Her heart beat, thumping through her whole body, she felt as though she was flickering in and out of the room.

Collin continued. "We're going to try a beta test. You know, like a hard-drive. Everything you do that bothers me, I'll correct it. And you'll learn. Give you data reports. But, I have to wait for you to remember." He shook his head. "Remember the way it really is. The way it can be. Not what he told you."

Molly shook her head, feeling it pound at the movement.

"No, no, don't talk, Kitten," He said. "Don't talk while I'm working. That's our first problem, here. You're not perfect because you talk out of turn and negate me. I hate it when people say no. It's your job to say yes. To everything." His eyes burned through her. "Every last fucking thing that comes to my mind."


	18. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Greg paced in his office. He had managed to make the five-hour trip from Carlisle to London in a little under three hours. But that had been almost a week ago. And they heard nothing. He filed the missing person reports quickly, but no one ever found anything. It was as though Molly Hooper, with no identification cards or accounts or job, disappeared into thin air.

He was constantly in a panicked frenzy. He tried to pull two and two together, but always wound up with three. What was he missing? There had to be something. Something huge. Something he missed in the surveillance tapes.

He and Detective Inspector what's-his-name had looked through surveillance cameras set up in the woods leading up to the private cabins, and found their first lead in the form of a small green car, speeding along, coming back the way it came.

Unable to look through the windows, however, they had no clue as to the identity of the driver. However, they were able to make out a bumper sticker from a rather popular car dealership in London, announcing that you too could rent a car as new and posh as that one.

And thus the investigation returned to London.

While he sped along on the thruway, he had his mobile pressed to his ear, calling the rent-a-car company on the bumper sticker of the vehicle in question.

"No," He said as the correspondent on the other line asked if he'd be interested in renting a new silver Jaguar. "Actually. I'm looking for the car with the license number – "

He averted his eyes from the road for just a moment, to the slip of paper he'd copied the number down on. A chorus of horns blared in his ears as he began to swerve from the lane.

Readjusting his car, he returned his eyes to the paper momentarily and read off the number.

The correspondent typed something into a computer, judging by the telltale clicking noises from the other end, and then said, "I'm sorry Detective Inspector. Are you sure that was the number in question?"

"Of course."

"It hasn't been rented out in weeks." The correspondent said. "The last time it was taken out was two weeks ago, by an Agatha McCauley."

Greg frowned. "Is it in the car park?"

"Moment," The correspondent quickly put him on hold.

He changed lanes, passing posh sports cars and big supped up trucks with astounding speed.

The correspondent returned. "Sorry. It's there in its designated spot. I could check the security videos, if you'd like."

Greg, figuring he knew how it would go, thanked the correspondent for her help, and hung up his mobile, shaking his head.

He wanted to punch the wall. He'd never felt so utterly incompetent, useless, or less suited for his job. And that was saying something.

In the video, the stalker had mentioned being in London – that he was taking her back. It wasn't that hard of a conclusion to draw, particularly after the rent-a-car.

She was in London. Somewhere in the city. Greg could have punched a wall. Molly was there, but he didn't know where. It was maddening.

It felt like a wild-goose chase. They had their first lead, but it seemed to lead them nowhere. Another dead end.

But, he wouldn't settle for a dead end. Not this time. This case wouldn't close – he wouldn't let it. He'd find Molly, and he'd find her alive, even if he had to bend the rules or be a bit unorthodox, he'd do it for her.

He'd bent rules before, it nearly cost him his job, but he never regretted it. His moral compass was too strong in any one direction. Even if he had to go against the very system he was at the core of, he'd do whatever it took to save her.

The clock was ticking. Paxton and Birdie both were murdered before they were even found missing. How long exactly did Molly have? Greg could have pulled his hair from his scalp.

What leads did they have? They had nothing to go on.

Nothing. No, there was always something. If nothing else, that's what Sherlock had always told him.

He never thought he needed him for a case more than he did in that exact moment. He needed somebody who was better than the boys at Scotland Yard. Somebody who could figure anything out by a single glance.

Only, he didn't have that luxury anymore. Not since Sherlock jumped off the roof at Bart's. Now it was up to him – and he was at a loss.

_All right, Greg, _he thought. _Think._

What was completely new? Completely out of the box?

The obvious connection all three girls had stood to be their gender, personality, and anti-social working conditions. Was there anything else? They were all in London. That meant that, at least for the past fifteen years, the killer lived in London. Which meant…well, he hadn't the foggiest idea.

Well, there were no witnesses. Which probably meant that either he was damn careful or he could easily blend into a crowd and hide in plain sight.

There were no fingerprints. That could mean that the stalker, whoever it was, had his prints burned off. Which, could, in turn, mean he had access to the acids that burned it off. And, he would have had access in college. So, a science student?

Then he remembered the laptop. It had fingerprints. Untraceable fingerprints, but they were definitely there.

_Well, bang goes that theory. _

The fingerprints they did find weren't in any census or records. So, what might that mean? Illegal immigrant? With a northern English accent? Well, he supposed that an accent was easy enough to fake – actors did it all the time, after all.

What else was there? He got into the security tape, made it short circuit. So, he must have been a technology wizard or something. Who knew how to clean up a crime scene so it was immaculate. A forensics student, then?

He sighed. This was harder than it looked.

What possible connection did all three of the girls have? Did the stalker just pick random girls off the street? Random sweet-looking girls?

He watched interviews over and over again, replaying the surveillance tape over and over again.

Interviewing Billy Morrison once more, he asked if he knew of any possible connection. Anything at all.

"I dunno nothin'," Morrison said. "Can't think of nothin'."

"He mentioned you, the stalker," Greg pressed. "You don't know anyone who seems a bit off?"

"'Course I do," Morrison said after a moment. "I live next door t' a drug dealer – see all sor's. But…nah. Can't think of no one who'd have a connection 't Ms 'ooper."

"Then did any of those people wind up in Bart's recently?" He asked, thinking maybe that could be the connection.

Morrison thought for a bit. Then he held his hands up. "'Ell if I know. I'm tryin' 't get clean, Detec'ive – don't associa't wiv 'em no more."

That was the final quote on the matter, and Greg was compelled to let the man go. And he was back to square one. Nothing connected.

Leaning back into his chair in his office, Greg shook his head, trying to figure this out. Setting his face into a deep frown, shaking his head solemnly, going to replay the surveillance video again. That voice. He'd heard that voice before. It was so familiar. Why couldn't he place it?

"Damn it."

He watched it over and again with the enhanced audio, listening to everything. Trying to get the voice. He compared it to witnesses from both Paxton and Birdie's cases. The inflection was unique, something about it should have set off a flag.

With a sigh, he tried to recover any sort of analysis he could. The man – whoever he was – calledhim by first name. Though, that probably didn't say much. The nutter thought he was in a serious relationship with Molly, after all.

There was something else, however, that proved to be a bit off. Molly's reaction. There was static at first, but then a confused, "What are _you_ doing here?"

That, at least, narrowed things down. She knew him, the stalker. She'd known him and hadn't suspected him. Someone who worked at Bart's with her, maybe? A neighbour in her building?

Suddenly, a window popped up on his computer screen. First instinct told him to close it, but as he moved the little arrow over to the red X in the corner, he noticed something odd. A low quality video showed what appeared to be a security tape of Molly's flat. He recognised the mop of dark hair entering the room on the still as Donovan.

Setting his brow, he moved the arrow back to the pop-up, and pressed play.

The security tape started with Donovan entering the flat. "All right," She said, moving away from the door. "Let's have a look around."

Shortly after, Anderson entered followed by another forensics pathologist and Collin Porter.

"I'll check for prints," Anderson muttered.

The other pathologist began taking photographs. "Isn't this pointless? Why are we wasting our time?"

"Why else?" Anderson muttered on the computer screen. "Greg's got a hard-on."

"What d'you mean by that?" Collin asked, sitting on a sofa and opening a net book.

"Oy, Porter! Don't contaminate the scene," Anderson snapped as Collin stood up abruptly. "And he's wasting our time – as usual – because of his own attachments."

"Why would it hurt to have a look around?" Collin inquired. "Sorry if it's obvious…"

Donovan sighed. "The only thing it'll help is that it _might _let us know if it's the same guy. If the scene's clean, then it probably is. But, it doesn't matter because we _know _no one outside of the tenants and Scotland Yard has been through here."

Greg grimaced. He realised the past few years hadn't exactly been the best for building a strong, fraternal team bonds, but that didn't warrant insulting him when he wasn't on the scene.

It always hurt to hear people talk badly about you behind your back. Of course, that wasn't the problem at hand. He'd worry about that later, he resolved. Or, if they really had an enormous problem with him, they could change divisions. But, he shook his head, ridding his mind of the added insult to injury, focusing on the video over his laptop.

"What about the photograph?" Collin cocked his head to the side childishly.

Donovan shrugged. "That's where things get weird. I don't know."

The team shuffled around the flat for a few more minutes. Greg watched in real time, confusedly watching the dusting, camera flashing, and looking under microscopes. Donovan shuffled around, overseeing the matter, looking in rooms and circling around.

The other pathologist took a photograph of the cat bowls. "Doesn't she have a cat?"

"So?" Anderson asked, checking for prints on the windowsill.

"Well, she didn't know about it, right? Wouldn't her cat start hissing or something from an intruder? I know they aren't the most protective of creatures, but she still might've noticed something off. Maybe the cat got drugged."

"Oh," Anderson said, nodding. "And the type of tranquilliser might lead us to him."

Collin's mouth divided into a smile. "That's actually pretty fucking brilliant."

Donovan nodded in agreement. "All right, let's look for it."

The team began to look under the furniture, in different rooms, and nooks and crannies that seemed as though it might tickle a feline's fancy.

Anderson whistled as he peered into a cupboard.

"That's not how you call cats," Collin said rolling his eyes. He lowered onto his hands and knees, and began to coo, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

The video stopped. Greg couldn't believe his ears. He played back the surveillance video from the cabin, back to the one from Molly's flat. The repeated quote on constant loop in his brain.

No time to say anything before he ran out the door, he simply threw on his coat. He only stopped for a moment to quickly check for the address to his destination.

He didn't wait to call for reinforcement, simply running to the car by himself, with nothing else on his mind.

It was ill-advised, but he couldn't think of anything else.

He couldn't believe it and he pressed on the gas pedal and bolted through stop signs, the siren blaring.

It'd been right in front of him the whole time. In front of all of them. One of their own. A man with access to all of the private information about the case. All of the private information they had at Scotland Yard. Exactly how easy had it been to find all of Molly's information on that government software?

_Oh, Hell. _

A man from the Yard. How could Collin Porter have gotten through background checks? He obviously knew his way around a computer, could make anything disappear. Even his connection to Celeste Paxton and Shaelee Birdie.

That must have been it, he'd erased all record of attending Kings College or frequent visits to the library. Hell, he probably struck his fingerprints from all records, too.

Fucking computers, Greg shook his head, thinking of all the potential evil Collin committed from one end of a laptop with a simple hit of a track pad.

Greg drove forward, not listening to the clock ticking, the police radio ongoing. The pounding in his ears, however, drowned it out.

How could this happen? How had he not noticed? And to think, he'd actually thought well of Collin – thought he was a bloody arse from the beginning, but an arse is better than a psychopathic serial stalker and killer.

The car almost flipped as he took a turn too sharply but continued on. He wasn't expecting to find Molly, going to Collin's flat. But he did expect the perpetrator to be there, and he'd lead them straight to her.

He could only hope he'd have enough time. That he'd make it before anything happened to Molly.


	19. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

The drugged haze lessened after a while. Either that or Molly was growing used to it. She was able to move, after a while – shuffling over the carpet, leaning on a blanched wall or over the furniture. Meanwhile, Collin carried on as though it was completely normal. Talking to her constantly in a friendly, congenial voice. It would have been easier to let her mind slip – to forget he was a dangerous man and this was a dangerous game. But, she wouldn't let that happen. She remained wary, and hoped she would soon be strong enough to make a fist.

"Soon, Kitten," Collin said to her one evening. "You'll be able to start cooking for us. Once you get better. It's part of being perfect, you know. Cooking – cleaning, things like that."

Molly, though she perceived herself coherent enough to speak, remained quiet, folding herself over into a shell.

"You look sad," Collin observed. "I can't leave you looking so sad. It's costing me my job at the Yard, you know. But, I'd rather stay here with you than try to pretend everything's all right whenever I look at the sod who took you."

She was never quite sure how to react – or if it even mattered. Half the time it seemed as though he was looking through different eyes, that everything was different than it really looked like. But, she just wanted to figure out how to get away. Get away and run for any sort of safe haven, anything to feel how safe she had when she was sitting with Greg.

Any allusion to safety was stripped away by that point. Everything was raw, the danger pulsating through the walls, through her skin. Her heart pounded in time with the clock, trying not to see it as a countdown.

After all, just because none of the girls he'd followed survived yet did not mean that she was going to die.

No sooner had the thought entered her brain than Molly found tears streaming down her cheeks. She had not wanted to cry, she had not wanted to let it out that she was so frightened beyond repair. But, it was no use.

"There it is, Kitten," Collin said, noticing her tears. "It's all coming back, isn't it? All the memories? What we are? What happened to you? Don't you worry now; you aren't going to be fucked up because of it. You won't have to go to therapy or anything. Perfect girls don't have to deal with any of that. If you'll excuse the computer allusions, I'll just do a sort of virus check on you – help you defrag the bad memories and get rid of them. It'll all turn out for the best."

Earlier, Molly remembered Collin saying he'd given the girls before _strikes. _And, from what she'd been able to make of it, in her delusional fog, once they had three, he killed them – because they lost all chance of being perfect.

He also mentioned how Shaelee (or was it Celeste?) tried to run – and that had been strike three. So, Molly bided her time, waited until the drugs left her system so that she could be successful where they had failed – just so she could escape with her life.

Molly had no sense of time, however, she didn't know if she'd been there for days, weeks, or months. It seemed as though he was weaning her off the drugs, but still forced enough down her throat to keep her weak.

She still blacked out sometimes. But she pushed herself to try to forget that – all of it. She wasn't sure what happened to her once the darkness settled in - she woke up where she had blanked, and everything seemed just the same, but she didn't trust it. After all, Shaelee Birdie's autopsy had been gruesome to say the least. The poor woman's body ravaged and mutilated – the skin around her had been torn and cut all too deliberately.

Molly realised a very similar fate awaited her, feeling her stomach leap upwards, threatening to evacuate its contents. Yet, she would not dare vomit. The room was too white, too clean. A small nagging voice reminded her that, if she got sick all over the bleached carpet, it might be strike three.

Although it was unthinkable, Molly complied with the demands when she could. Thinking through her brainstem, she realised this was survival in a way she never had to worry about before. A false step, doing anything in a manner he did not want, could warrant his third murder. All that mattered was keeping her heart beating.

Of course, it helped that he hadn't asked much of her yet. The threat wafted through the air, however. His sexual comments hardly ceased. That was one thing Molly didn't think she could make herself do.

It didn't help, but when it came up, she couldn't help but think of Greg. How kind he had been, the way he burned her skin every time he had touched her, the emptiness she felt when he exited her and how complete it was with him inside.

She couldn't imagine how different it would be, if for survival, she had to go through with it with Collin. Her memory didn't serve well, and for all she knew he'd already taken her while she was unconscious. She couldn't afford to think like that, however.

Hell, she wouldn't _let _herself, for fear she would start shaking or make herself sick. But – she couldn't help but think about the possibilities at his comments – if he ever tried while she was conscious, that would be unbearable. Amazing how the same act could be so completely different under different circumstances.

And she was at a stalemate, kept drugged with no way out in sight, and the cycle just repeated itself.

But, in the very least, she was getting more coherent. That was key. She'd tried walking without leaning on a wall, and she could almost do it. Her feet dragged as she tried, but she was at least able to stand.

She sat on the futon, not moving an inch, assessing the scene. The moment she could, she'd run. Wait for night, for Collin to fall asleep, and in that time she wouldn't even have to be completely clear headed. As long as she could walk, she could escape. The front door, or at least what she assumed was a front door, had three deadbolts. But, from there, she was lost.

The curtains were always drawn, and she had no idea if she was on a ground floor or up higher, or if she was in a flat or a formal house. She couldn't tell if he had an alarm that would go off upon opening the door (though, it was probably a fairly safe assumption).

The other problem with her plan, naturally, seemed to be that she never actually saw Collin sleep. The days ran together, but she figured that's when he drugged her, to keep her sedated while he slept.

Molly thought about it, and an idea hatched in her brain. If she could convince Collin that she wanted to say – that she "remembered," as he psychotically put it, maybe he'd steer clear of drugging her that night. And, if she was entirely sober after he was asleep, well, then she could make a run for it, away from this place, back to Greg, and get Collin locked away for good – or, at the very least, pull out a restraining order.

The issue, though, was how to make him believe her supposed change of heart. She was no actress, she could not manipulate others for her own benefit, and she wasn't a seductress.

She was just Molly Hooper.

She was a woman who preferred pyjamas and jumpers to cocktail dresses and necklaces, who sat and read Tolstoy when she could be out at clubs or parties, who could count the number of men she'd had sex with on one hand, who couldn't deceive anyone. Then again, she'd never tried.

Completely without a plan, she started to stand, slowly. It was madness, going at the storm before she even knew for sure what it was. But, she figured, she had nothing to lose. Wouldn't hurt to wing it.

Her eyes shone slightly, quivering, as they slid over to the man at the computer desk.

"C-Collin," She managed to choke out.

"Yes, Kitten?" He said, not removing his eyes from some official looking web-browser.

"I—I…" She squeezed her eyes together, breaking into a cold sweat. _Oh, please, let this be the right thing to say. _"I wanted to…to thank y-you."

Collin spun around in his chair, the corners of his mouth lifting into a sly smirk. "You remember."

Molly shrugged with a faux breathy laugh and returning to him a hollow smile.

Shooting up to his feet, Collin clapped his hands together. "This—this is _fantastic. _I can't believe it actually worked this time."

"Neither can I…" Molly managed to choke out.

Collin nodded, unable to wipe the twisted grin away from his face. "Brilliant. Fucking brilliant! We can start in on enhancing your perfection now. And on breaking that man once and for all. Oh, this is wonderful!"

He continued, looking like a starving dog just presented an entire carcass. "And things can go back to the way they were – the way they should be. Just you and me, Kitten. Forever."

Molly suppressed the sudden urge to vomit as he came nearer to her, and nearer still. She wanted to hit and kick and run right then. But he was between her and the door. And, she recalled the fight in the cabin what felt like years ago, he was stronger than her.

So, nothing else for it, she'd have to be smarter than him.

His hands coiled like snakes around her arms as he stepped closer still, pulling her in.

Holding her breath all the while, Molly stealthily moved her hands downwards, keeping the touch light and mindless, as though they had no certain destination.

"We're finally together, Kitten," Collin said, tracing circles on her forearm with his fingernails. "And we can't break anymore."

She locked eyes with him, trying to hold the gaze without shaking. It felt as though his eyes were pulling apart her soul, the very fibre of her being, as though every train of thought she'd ever had, every single solitary thought was on display for him to tare apart and use against her. Her fingers slid quietly into his pocket, searching for a warm metal handle, inching around in a circle, so that they were facing opposite ways. She tried to give him a fake smile, but found herself unable to stretch the charade to that extent.

"Oh, _Christ,_" Collin continued, staring at her with delight. Raw feelings apparent, radiating from him. Randy. Hungry. Greedy. "Look at you! You're perfect. So completely perfect. I never thought I'd find it again. Subdued, shy, lonely. I'm all you've got."

Molly held her breath.

All sounds stopped, time slowed; everything seemed to move in half-time.

Before she knew what happened, she flicked the switchblade open and tore through his sleeve, red stain soaking through the fabric.

Then she shot towards the door, her fingers shaking at the deadbolts as Collin recoiled, gripping his arm, and yelling, "You fucking cunt!"

She switched the last deadbolt, and managed to swing the door open, when he grabbed her hair, pulling her back into the room as she cried out. The door slammed. He kept a firm grip on her hair, dragging her through the room.

"Why would you fucking do that, huh?" He demanded, slamming her against the wall so hard her extensions ripped out.

She crumbled to the ground. A devastating blow to her stomach followed. Her spine jolted at the next hit. Curling into a ball, she lost all senses, only feeling one hit after another, shooting through her bones. She felt something hot and sticky secrete down her head and neck . She cried out as her shoulder popped out of place.

"You fucking _bitch!" _He yelled. "Why do you all ruin _everything_?"

And he didn't let up. Continually hitting her, kicking her, pounding down on her bones and any exposed part of her body with excessive brutality, growing faster and harder with every blow. Blood dripped down her limbs, core, and filled her mouth. She tried to spit and wound up spluttering all over.

"God, I fucking love you! What the hell's the matter with you?"

He reached down, pulling her up to her feet by her hair, delivering a devastating bash to her stomach. She doubled over but regained enough force to slam her head between his legs with everything she had. He fell back, however, still with firm grip on her hair, taking her along.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he put it over her mouth and nose. Molly held her breath and tried to resist the hold. She twisted away, and started to run, but found her legs turned rubbery.

The room turned violet before her eyes. Everything fuzzed, the room blurred together.

_No. No. No. NO. _

She found herself on her back, feeling as though she was laying on the ceiling, her heart stuttered, her lungs bloated. Her eyes wanted to shut. Just for a moment. It would all get better if she shut them.

But, when they opened again, he was right there. Too close. Too damn close.

He smirked, a demented twinkle in his eye. His whole face began to twist and blur together, the features impossible to detect, becoming one single inhuman entity.

"Normally," He said in a voice that sounded monstrously low. "I find a more inconspicuous place. But you're a feisty one—I can tell. Things have to move quicker with you."

Molly couldn't tell one direction from another, as she gasped for air, trying to stay awake. Anything not to fall asleep. But, the next thing she knew, there was hot breath in her mouth.

"By the way, Kitten," he drawled in a whisper. She could feel his lips moving between hers, slimy entities invading her, searching her. "Strike three."

His tongue slid down her throat. She began to convulse, shaking uncontrollably. Making every last limb sore, moving without consent. Her head smacked on the floorboard, and her world blacked out in the way that was all together too common.

* * *

Greg barely had time to slam the car door behind him as he ran up to the house. Every time his feet hit the pavement felt like he was walking on hot coals.

Trotting up the stairs up to the front of the building, he felt adrenaline pulsating through him. The air stood still and heavy as he kicked in the door, suddenly wishing he had stopped to gather backup back at the Yard.

Pulling together all possible composure, he quelled the nervousness welling inside him as he stepped on the landing.

He could hear pounding from the first floor. Without thinking, he ran quickly as possible up the stairs, kicking the second door open. Before he could fully process the scene, he shouted roughly some sort of guttural noise from the back of his throat.

Collin looked up from where he crouched on the floor over Molly's bruised, bloodstained, shaking body. He drew his brows and sighed exasperatedly.

"God, it's _you." _

"Back!" He barked.

Collin rolled his eyes and strolled leisurely to the window. "Go ahead," He sighed. "I'll wait."

Unable to think, Greg ran towards Molly's seizing form. He undid his belt quickly, placing it between her teeth, and rolled his coat under her head, rolling her over to her side. "Oh, my God."

While all this happened, Collin meandered around the room.

"It's over, boss." He said. Then, he laughed slightly. "Can't imagine I still have a job after this, though. So, let me rephrase."

Greg kept the time in his head. How long did the average seizure last? He'd been told once but for some reason, he couldn't remember.

Collin continued. "So – it's over, wanker. She doesn't want you. She remembers everything. How you stalked her, isolating her – holding her down against her will. Shoving inside her. God, if she comes to again, she might kill you. I think I'd like to be around for that. Oh well. Can't change destiny."

He ignored him, trying to keep the time. Trying to keep Collin in his peripheral vision. Too much stimulation. Oh, God, Molly looked so awful. Pale. Dripping in sweat. Blood dripping down her chin, gushing along her arms and legs. As she shook, vomit exploded onto the floor beside her head. He tried to shift her to her side.

Collin laughed bitterly. "The irony is that I don't want her either, anymore. Right bitch, she is. She stabbed me in the arm. Temper." He sighed. "Slutty _and _irritable. Hardly perfect. She did come so fucking close, though. I really thought she was it."

Molly stopped shaking. Her entire body went limp and rubbery, eyes closed and breathing slow.

"Ah, well. Next time." Collin smirked.

With this, Greg slowly stood over where Molly laid; facing Collin, rage growing up from his toes all the way through the top of his head.

He cocked the pistol. "You're under arrest for the murders of Celeste Paxton, Shaelee Birdie, and the following, assault, kidnapping, and attempted rape of Molly Hooper."

"I'm surprised you know how to use that gun," Collin cocked a brow daringly. "That model's from this century."

In the next moment, Greg found himself face down on the ground, the gun spiraling from his hands. The taste of iron hit his tongue as he wiped away the blood spurting from his nose.

Remembering the time he'd watched Molly and John fight in 221B, he swung his legs around to trip Collin. The younger man faltered, and Greg grabbed his collar. As Collin squirmed, Greg returned the punch – succeeding to break his nose.

The brawl broke out. Greg slammed against the wall, and he used his knee to deliver a second blow. Fists rumbled; they were at each other's throats. Collin grabbed Greg's collar and pummelled his face. Greg kicked Collin in the stomach and the fight went on.

Greg felt warm blood ooze from his scalp as his head propelled into the banister. He shoved the other off him, straight into the mass of computers against the wall.

Sparks flew and Collin lay limp.

Greg shook his head, pulling out his mobile, dialling 999.

"I need an ambulance," He said into the phone through a heavy nosebleed. He continued after relating the address, "Young woman. Drug-induced seizures – probably GHB, and a man's been electrocuted."

He sat next to Molly on the floor, making sure she continued breathing or did not start seizing again.

They loaded her into the ambulance quickly, hooking her up to machines to flush the drugs from her bloodstream, patching up gashes with bandages. Collin loaded onto a stretcher and rolled into the ambulance. It made Greg's blood boil, seeing him rolled into the same ambulance as Molly.

The paramedic took one look at him with eyes filled of horror. "What happened to you, then?"

Greg shrugged, finding his entire body stiff, his head pounding. "Got a bit bashed up."

The medic frowned. "Well, let's get you into the ambulance, then. See what's wrong with you."

He wound up with stitches on his head, dozens of bruises, and a massive concussion. As he waited for the doctors at Bart's to come back with his X-ray, he called the Yard to explain what happened.

"Wait, _what?" _Donovan demanded from the speaker.

"Yeah," Greg said. "Surprised me too, but surely enough, Collin Porter was our stalker all along. We knew he was a brilliant hacker, but I suppose we didn't realise exactly how good. I'm detained at Bart's right now – got a bit roughed up. But, stop by Porter's flat, confiscate computers, drugs, you know the drill."

"All right," Donovan said with a sigh, about to hang up.

"Oh, and Sally?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for keeping your head through all this. Helped a lot."

"It's my job." She said, but he could tell she was smiling.


	20. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

Molly woke up in the midst of a coughing fit. A bright light stung her eyes, and she blinked repeatedly to clear her mind and let her eyes adjust. She felt an IV stabbing through her arm and stared at it for a minute, before letting her eyes wander around the room. A bright, white hospital suite surrounded her. She'd walked past this room hundreds of ties before. Bart's, of course. But, how'd she wind up in the hospital?

Then it came back, all of it.

She choked. What happened? Everything fogged over, hard to remember. But, she was able to recall a few things. The days of drugged stupor. Trying to escape and being beaten senseless. The handkerchief, falling into the drugged haze.

It was odd, she thought. But she wasn't afraid, or nervous. On the contrary, she felt completely calm. What was in that IV anyway?

"You're awake," A softer voice sounded from her other side.

She tried to turn, finding a shooting pain racking through her shoulder. She yelped harshly.

In a moment, Greg entered her line of vision. He had a black eye, a large bruise on his chin and neck, black stitches high on his forehead, and a butterfly clip on the bridge of his nose.

"Hey," He whispered. "Your shoulder got thrown out."

Molly just stared at him, "What happened to you?"

Greg let out a slightly bitter laugh. "Tried to fly."

"I'm serious!"

"Got into a bit of a brawl with Porter."

Molly's confusion quickly turned to terror. "He hurt you?"

"Not as much as he hurt you," Greg said sadly.

Molly pressed her lips together, reaching out to grab his hand. "I'm fine."

"You've got multiple fractures, eleven stitches, drug withdrawal symptoms, a pulled shoulder, and I don't think there's a single part of you that isn't bruised."

She waited a beat, thinking it through. "Yeah. Fine."

"You're in shock."

"It's always shock with you, isn't it?" Molly smiled, surprised to find exactly how sore her face was, tentatively tracing shapes on the inside of his hand. "So, you found him?"

"Found you." Greg said, looking her in the eye, trying not to stare at her battered, cut, and bruised face. "He just happened to be there."

Molly's face remained serious. She gripped his hand a little tighter, tapping the finger attached to the heart monitor on her thigh.

"Oh, and Molly," Greg said, gnawing on his cheek. "They did tests and…if you want, you should be able to find out if he did anything else to you while you were unconscious. I didn't ask. I'm just glad you're all right."

Molly was surprised to realise she had been holding her breath. "I…I have no clue. I hardly remember anything. I didn't realise what was going on when it did."

He nodded. "You've been out a couple days."

She blinked. "And you've been waiting here?"

"When I could," Greg blushed. Then he coughed. "Oh, and we've had a look through Porter's computers, and we found your file. Nothing about your bank accounts or your rent, but it did help us get things sorted here at the hospital. If you talk to your bosses you probably can get your job back."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "Oh, well…that's incredible."

He squeezed her hand. "There is one more thing though."

"What?"

Greg grimaced slowly. "He got out. Left the hospital early a day or two ago. Got into the database. Looks like he wasn't ever here."

Molly blanched. "So he's still out there?"

His grimace worsened. "Yeah."

Nodding, Molly took another deep breath. "Oh."

Greg shook his head and tightened his grip on her hand. "We've got some of our boys looking into it, trying to find him. And, in the meantime, if I have to walk you around like before, I'll do it. The rest of the force won't be up to it, but if it'll make you rest any easier I'll do what I can."

"You've already done so much for me, Greg. I can't thank you enough."

"I want to see you safe. You don't need to thank me."

"Might I try, though?" Molly said, smiling.

He returned the smile, a small chuckle under his breath. "Uh…the IV…it's got you…odd."

"I'm sober enough, thank you." Molly insisted, pulling his hand closer to her.

She kissed him, and his hand tentatively clasped about the base of her neck, careful not to push against any bruises and the heart monitor bleeped a little bit faster.

* * *

Collin Porter sat in an alleyway, crouched over a shiny new laptop It wasn't the most ideal place to flaunt such gadgets – what with homeless people on every corner, but he had no alternatives.

He stared at the screen, finalising the transaction with an override pass code. There was his salvation. A new name, a new life. Collin Porter might've been unlucky in love – might've attracted sluts and cunts, but certainly Marcus Bennett would have a better time. Even the name screamed success.

He paused, wondering if Molly changed her locks. Probably not. She _was _awfully stupid. It'd be easy enough to track her down again, even if she took basic precautions.

Marcus had nothing to avenge, but, he smiled slightly, it wouldn't hurt to tack on an epilogue to Collin's last relationship. Maybe he ought to even finish them all off – a final ending. Get his revenge on Morrison, Thompsen, Wilkes, and Lestrade, as well as fix up Molly. And then he could start over.

"How'd you happen by that _thing_?"

He jolted up surprised to hear a voice. He'd thought he was alone in the alley. Across from him, balanced atop of a bin, sat a lanky man in a dirty trench-coat.

He wrinkled his nose in superiority; he did so _loathe_ the homeless.

"It was a gift," he said, closing the conversation.

Yet the lanky man jumped down from the bin. "Must've been a good gift."

"Yeah. Sure. I guess." Collin muttered, turning back to his computer, until the man said something that made his skin crawl.

"How would you gauge the pain of your electrocution?"

Collin blinked. "What?"

The man took a step in front of him, and began speaking quickly. "The skin off the back of your neck is beginning to peel, but you remain untanned. People don't simply back into electric currents, with the exception of being pushed in. Now, just from that evidence, it would appear as though you _fell _in and horrible wiring caused the shock. But you've got bruises along your face and neck, obviously indicating a fight. There are traces of blood coming through your shirt. You've had a full body injury, and they all seem to be resulting from a fight."

The man straightened his coat and continued. "It could just be from a street fight, but the way you walk, hold yourself, and your eye shifts indicate a personality disorder – possibly antisocial but more likely a _lovely _combination of that with obsessive-compulsive (the personality disorder not the anxiety variant). Add that to your paranoid schizophrenia and we've got an interesting mix. So, no; not just a random street fight at all. You wouldn't waste your time with that."

The man paused before continuing, ice in his gaze. "It was a battle. And one with a prize involved."

"How—how did you know about the schizophrenia?" Collin blinked. He'd hacked into the mental hospital when he was sixteen and erased it all. It wasn't true anyway. That fucker of a psychologist didn't know anything.

"It's obvious," The man said, a bored tone slicing through his voice. "Your delusions lead you to believe you're in a romantic or otherwise physical relationship with these women you deem candidates for your profile of the perfect woman. And your hallucinations cement the beliefs. You see them, don't you? See them in your flat, with you."

"You're _wrong._"

"It was medication that made her go away, wasn't it? The girl you thought you were in love with in secondary school." The man said.

"Susan?" Collin's breath left his lungs entirely, the mental image of the most perfect, shy, glorious girl in the world danced behind his eyes.

"Was that her name?" The man said uninterestedly. "Oh. Your medication stopped the hallucination, and your only conclusion was that she died. So, whenever a real woman resembled her, you attached, and followed her to be certain it wouldn't happen again. But then you crossed the line—leaving your counselling and medication—and became dangerous."

Collin snapped his laptop closed and slowly began to retread. "Look, I don't know who the _fuck _you are but—"

"Looking at records online, it seems as though nothing matches in any mental hospital. But you wouldn't let there be, hacking into networks _is _your livelihood, after all—you've created it to be exactly what you want it to be." The man said plainly. "And you've done it for others, too. You're the one who helped Jim Moriarty become Richard Brook."

Collin's blood turned cold in his veins. "How…how the hell do you know that?"

The man ignored the question, sending him an exasperated glower, and continued. "And _he _must have been the one to put you on Molly Hooper's trail. You'd left that life, for a while. Hadn't stalked anyone in years. Sure, you got distracted by the other one, but Moriarty's intention was for you to ruin her. Possibly because she has a realistic memory of him as he was, not just as Brook.

"You followed her. You frightened her. But, moreover, you hurt her. You detached her from everybody, and followed all her connections – stalking her friends as well," The man continued, sounding bored. "But that's when you made your mistake."

"What mistake was that?" Collin asked, going over computer codes in his brain, passwords, records he'd altered.

Sneering slightly, the man stepped closer. "You started following John Watson. That's when I saw you and noticed the pattern."

Collin's face twisted. "So, you've been following them, too. What's the difference?"

"The _difference _is clear," The man said, irritably. "I simply observe."

A look of realisation hit Collin in the face. "Wait…the_ fuck_? That was you!" He clapped his hands together. "The night I tried to send Watson to the hospital. You were the man in the shadow who beat the living shit out of me."

The man's lip quivered but otherwise he remained silent.

A moment passed.

"So, how _would _you gauge the pain of your electrocution? But I need your answer. So."

Curious, Collin cringed. "_Why_?"

The man's eyes flashed, "So I can make it so much worse."

Before he could flinch, the man threw an eerily familiar handkerchief at his face.

Collin crumbled to the ground as the alleyway turned violet and he began to tremble, softly at first, but getting more and more violent by the second.

Once the criminal grew still, the man looked down at him, pulling out a revolver.

A trigger moved. The shot reverberated through the street. And Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the alleyway, hiding underneath the collar of a trench coat.

_**Fin **_

* * *

**A/N: Well, it's that time! Time for random trivia and author commentary about the story! Because I don't like to do mid-story author's notes, I do this. I decided as of now. **

**BUT ON WITH THE TRIVIA/COMMENTARY. **

**- I believe I mentioned this at the beginning of the story, but I wrote this whole thing within two weeks. It was the entirety of my existence; I'd sit on my comfy chair getting burns on my knees from my laptop and just cranked this baby out. **

**- Collin Porter's name was not originally Collin Porter. It was Sam Connors. Yeah, not quite as menacing. I wound up changing it after the entire story was done for that reason. **

**- However, Collin wasn't actually the original stalker. I changed that around chapter 12, when I realised it made more sense than the original stalker. (more obvious computer prowess, he was always a bit more crass in his talking, it served to a tiny call-back with the idea of IT men and Molly, plus I just loved writing for him) Though most of his scenes were already written before he became the stalker, making all the reviews mentioning how creepy he was a bit off-putting…haha. **

**- The original stalker was a bloke by the name of Arthur Bennett. Don't recognise him? Well, he got completely cut. He was originally both Shalee and Molly's landlord (this was before I made Molly's landlords gay) who happened to have a hobby of computers. He actually had more background and appearances than Collin in the original draft. (That version was about 70,000 words.) I wound up cutting him entirely. I realised later when everybody guessed that Collin was the stalker correctly that I should've kept him in as a red herring. Or maybe that would've been too obvious. You know, have more than one character it could possibly be. Oh well, live and learn. **

**- This story contained my first ever non-fade-to-black love scene. I'm sure in a few years I'll look back and be ashamed on how bad it was, but for now I'm pretty damn proud of myself. **

**- This story was not written in chapter form. My original drafts (all seven of them) are all on a single file. I changed it to chapter form, because 50,000+ word one-shots tend to be a bit off-putting. **

**- And, finally, the inspiration of this story came from Nicholas Sparks's novel ****The Guardian. ****Just, y'know, minus the dog. Or the plot. The concept was similar. **


End file.
